


This Doesn't Make Sense, Even For Crack

by S_IRIS



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Awkward Dates, Bottom John, Car Sex, Conspiracy, Crack, Crazy, Criminal Families, Crossdressing, Dysfunctional Family, Epic amounts of crack, Established Mycroft Holmes/Anthea, Family Drama, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Humor, I Blame Tumblr, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Solemnly Swear That I Am Up To No Good, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I'm Sorry, Idiots in Love, Inspired by a Movie, John fights a lion, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Madness, Now i know why, Oh My God, Online Dating, Out of Character, Sex in a Car, Sherlock likes lost city mysteries, Strict Families, This Is STUPID, This is serious crack shit, Top Sherlock, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, Why Did I Write This?, You Have Been Warned, because he's a pirate at heart, from all sides, right - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:43:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1995513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_IRIS/pseuds/S_IRIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, in a crack universe...</p><p>Sherlock Holmes was an upper middle class consulting detective and Mycroft Holmes was a married MI6 official. Mrs. Hudson was their (fairy? Well, not really) godmother, if that existed even after the children came of age. She drilled an idea into Mycroft's head to make his brother leave the danger life and lead a sedentary one like himself by settling down and marrying some stupid law-abiding, decent cow in a purely decent family.</p><p>John Watson was a sweet, unassuming and kindhearted doctor, who belonged to one of the richest crime families with his elder step-brother, Jim and double step-brother Sebastian. They made it their responsibility to get their little brother married to a decent boy, but they were unsuccessful because no decent family wanted to ally with a criminal family like theirs.</p><p>Like in every Johnlock fic, Sherlock and John fell in love and they wanted to spend the rest of their lives with each other. Sherlock is ready to elope but John is insistent that Sherlock's family accept their liaison. But will Mycroft and the Holmes family accept the alliance?</p><p> <br/><strong>WARNING: FATAL AMOUNTS OF CRACK. EVERYONE IS DECONSTRUCTED HERE.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eve of The Meeting Of Two Worlds

**Author's Note:**

> There were some of my readers telling me that I was punching out too many sad stories and chapters... so here's my attempt on 10 chapters of total crack and humour and madness.
> 
> By the way, just to warn you, Mycroft and Jim are the characters who will be deconstructed the most here. Sherlock and John.... well, I'll try to leave them alone. Everyone else.... may God be with you.
> 
> Very minor relationship problem, and minor angst only to pave the way for major crack and humour. If you wanted the sort of story that makes you say _What The Actual Fuck_ at almost every step through the story, well, you've come to the right place *evil laughter*

"Cobra is go, talk later," Mycroft Holmes muttered into his phone, leaning against the window of the Stranger room in Diogenes club. He looked into a file and sat down on his usual seat, yawning widely. The meeting was scheduled to be at four, before Sherlock came back home tired and exhausted with his latest case and running around London. He was still a child, Mycroft sighed, and only marriage could tame him. Happy marriage to a fine, decent lady who had not a speck or shadow of crime in her entire family.

And why marry Sherlock off? Yes, Mycroft loved his little brother more than himself, but now he had a wife too, and it was really, _really_ inconvenient to have Sherlock around in the house. And the times Sherlock had been with a flatmate had been an utter disaster. The first one had almost introduced him to drugs, the second one had introduced him to crime-solving, and the third one had introduced him to hatred towards marriage. Rest others had mostly been criminals. In the light of such disastrous flatmates, Mycroft (actually Mrs. Hudson) decided to get Sherlock a life partner, clean and decent and stable.

But Sherlock was disinterested in every girl he had set him up with. Once or twice, Mycroft even had to send one or two his way, or send him investigating into the way of three or four girls, such that Sherlock might take interest in. He himself used to be a staunch cynic of the institution of matrimony, but now, with a happy domestic life with Andrea (Anthea's real name was Andrea, by the way) and a baby on the way—she had done the test day before yesterday by the way—he knew how satisfying a happy marriage could be. After all, his own parents were testimony to that.

But now that he was happy and well-settled, Sherlock wasn't. And that fuelled by Mrs. Hudson, their godmother telling him to fix Sherlock's marriage with some girl without his notice, and then drug him so that he woke up at the altar after having exchanged vows (somehow), Mycroft had forced Sherlock to join an online dating site, which the elder Holmes brother was going to check up.

Five minutes later, Mycroft's face rested in his palms. Sherlock had still not joined the dating website, and Mycroft was understandably tired.

Fifteen minutes later, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard stood in front of him, chin up, hands to the side and left leg twitching a bit. Mycroft enjoyed having that effect on people, and Mycroft hated not having a similar effect on Sherlock.

Greg was however, a little wary of the elder Holmes brother. As long as he followed his instructions to the letter.... well, no fucking way. He was a sodding Detective Inspector, and not a dog who could be summoned by the big brother of the man who contributed to more than half of his closed cases and to the whole of his annoyance.

Mycroft called him over to his side, and showed him the website.

"Sherlock's name must appear here, when I search for him tomorrow," he growled, and Greg flinched visibly. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, and Greg shrugged, wondering why Mycroft couldn't do it himself.

As if to almost answer his question, Mycroft spoke, "You have much more influence over him than I do. You refuse him cases, unless he joins the site."

Greg forced a wolf-like bark of laugh down his throat. He had so many brilliant ideas for this. Donovan and Anderson would love to wager in for this.

"Alright, you could've told me on phone," Greg shrugged, but Mycroft shook his head, "Detective Inspector, I want you to help me."

Greg frowned. Mycroft? Asking for help? Well, he should as well wish for a sports car too. He did not voice that aloud, instead going with, "For?"

Mycroft stood up, "Come along with me."

Greg groaned. He now knew exactly what Mycroft was calling him for.

Half—an—hour later, Mycroft, Greg and Andrea found themselves in front of a posh mansion with iron gates opening into the villa. This was the three hundred and seventh time Greg found himself being dragged out of his working hours to look for a girl suitable for Sherlock. Although it was fun and was the daily topic of gossip at Scotland yard about how the freak couldn't get a girl for himself and how Mycroft had to go about for the final, the last resort: arranged marriage since Sherlock wasn't interested in dating. But the thing was, it was difficult to find a contender for arranged marriage since most people went for dating first and Sherlock had decided that if divorce was going to be the ultimate result, he had no wish to go through the intermediate steps. At that time, Mycroft had thought that Sherlock had been joking, now he had come to believe that maybe he wasn't.

Anyway, Mycroft Holmes was a staunch Briton, in love with the Queen and the country, a law abiding man in Britain and a rule breaker beyond Her international borders. If there was a girl for Sherlock to marry, she would have to come from a decent family, and Mycroft Holmes had his own formula for determining that.

And Greg Lestrade was happy to work overtime if it only meant that he would not get dragged to what seemed like a very family thing for the Holmeses. In short... going out with Sherlock's big brother and his wife to sort a girl for him.... not really his division.

The whole thing could've been ridiculously simple, said Sherlock once. If only it was a girl who had no family. Mycroft had conveniently shut him up by telling him that such girls never opted for arranged marriages. Not that it mattered to Sherlock in any way. He knew that it would be only on the day of betrothal and separation that Sherlock would see her at all.

So, why was Greg dragged to these things? He had realised it after Mycroft had made him meet the first two families. He was supposed to be impersonating Sherlock for the time being, and also because he was an inspector. By some chance, all the families that the Holmeses had gone to were all well-established criminal families who concealed their black-marketing behind the white names of their industries, and Mycroft, ever the workaholic head of the British Secret Service, used Greg and his wife as an witness for everything that happened, and proposing Sherlock's marriage to them was the easiest way to get through. But since Sherlock refused to come for such events, it had to be Greg.

So, by proposing Sherlock's marriage to the daughter of every bad guy in the city, Mycroft successfully and singlehandedly usurped their crime networks. Easy peasy.

Meanwhile, in the mansion, they were led to the sitting room where the family in question, the Roman Catholic mother, her husband and their beautiful, docile daughter were sitting, waiting for them. Mycroft shook his hands with him, pretending to appear impressed at the grandeur of the house and the decorum of the servants. He came right down to business, mingling with them as easily as sugar does with water. After fifteen minutes of tiresome chatting and upon noticing that Greg was eyeing the girl meant for Sherlock, Mycroft cleared his throat in a businesslike fashion.

"Uhm... Mr. Sanchez, your daughter is indeed a very beautiful woman, and it'll be my pleasure to..." At this point, Mycroft's neck turned sideways on its own accord in what would seem to an unassuming girl a very rude and perverted gesture and that too in front of her parents and his own wife, which incidentally proved to be the direction in which the bedrooms were also located, "ask for your daughter's hand in marriage..."

Actually this was Mycroft's problem, and also a problem of the office he held in front of the foreign dignitaries, who had no idea about this particular problem of his. As a holder of a "minor position" in the British government, Mycroft Holmes was entitled to all health facilities and insurance, and yet he never put an end to the misunderstanding created by the slight bob of his head in often the wrong direction: out of the room, the lavatory, the bedroom, the closet, all sorts of potential makeout places, so much that for the first year of his job, he was considered to be a complete pervert, and there had been several lawsuits filed against him by women in his workplace.

But now, everyone knew that it was just a problem, not an insinuation or an invitation.

(If you're wondering why the BBC Mycroft doesn't do that.... well, he actually does, but since that would be very unsettling for a "serious" character like his, Mr. Gatiss and Mr. Moffat have insisted upon cutting those scenes away)

But the girl in front of him clearly didn't mind, and she didn't say a single word, did not even express unease. Mycroft instantly knew what sort of family they were. He smiled across at the father, who had the top button of his shirt completely done up to the neck, and he was clearly uncomfortable in it.

"But, I really can't lie to such decent, domestic people like yourselves..." and the bob again. The girl across him smiled coyly, "I hold a small, modest office under the British government, but in reality, I supply pot and cocaine to the Eastern European countries, you know... and don't ask about my brother here," he indicated to Greg, who grinned lopsidedly, "Smoking, drinking, gambling are his virtues, so as to speak."

The family across his gasped in horror. Mycroft wondered for a small second whether the information had been false. But the family straightened up, and the father unbuttoned the top button of his shirt with a relieved expression. Mycroft knew that he had them under his thumb now.

"To tell you the truth, I really don't think your daughter deserves such a vile youth as my brother.... what happened, dear sir?" Mycroft asked, looking a little surprised. Andrea sat back, smiling to herself at the tactics her husband was playing upon them.

The man laughed heartily, "Oh dear me, Mr. Holmes! Dear me! This drama was seriously smothering me, like choking my breath in my throat, you know? You should've told us, otherwise we wouldn't have put up with this Catholic nonsense!"

Greg reached into his pocket and turned the Dictaphone on as the man blabbed on proudly about how similar their families were and how well they suited each other.

"My Big Daddy is in prison for that Arthur Merlin murder case, Mr. Holmes, oh you should've told us!"

Mycroft guffawed, "Is that so? How fortunate, isn't it, darling?"

"Simply marvellous!" Andrea quipped.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I look forward to this union between our families!"

"So do I," Mycroft rose from his chair and shook his hands with him, and with the bob as well. Another two hours, and Mr. Sanchez's conquests were all recorded into the Dictaphone. Mycroft, Andrea and Greg took their leave and exited the mansion safely, having visited the three hundredth and eighth. Operation Cobra was go, over and out.

Another week, and Mr. Sanchez's property was seized, all the black money restored to the British Treasury and the entire Sanchez family in prison for all eternity.

* * *

"Sherlock!"

A head full of dark curls turned in Greg's direction, "What? Come to—"

"Your brother busted the arse of the three hundredth crime lord today," Greg yawned as he accompanied Sherlock to the duct tape where Donovan and Anderson were standing, listening to the freak argue with the DI, "Says that you will be thrown off cases if you don't go and join that sodding dating website!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh come on! I'm better off as a bachelor. I've heard that women don't like mould and thumbs in the fridge—"

"Look, it's not my problem. You know how your brother is, right? Seriously Sherlock, just make that bloody profile, and then maybe your idiot brother will stop—"

"It's not my brother's fault," Sherlock leaned against the police car and spoke in a low, forlorn voice, "My mother's dying wish was to get me married to a decent girl before thirty."

Greg shifted his weight to his left foot uncomfortably, not wanting to go into such a sensitive issue, "Maybe you should honour it."

"What for?" He mumbled, "I—"

"You bloody well listen to me, Sherlock! Your brother regularly drags me out to impersonate you. It's stupid for me, alright? Just—just make a profile. You don't have to go and actually meet these people in person, alright? Just... keep your brother at peace."

At this, Sherlock smirked up at him, "I  _never_ keep my brother at peace, Lestrade."

* * *

"Okey, dokey," Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson were gathered around the desktop computer in Greg's cabin as Sherlock set up his profile on the online dating website. It was only after Sherlock had found out that a string of men were being murdered by a lady serial killer that he had agreed to sign up for it. If anything, Greg vowed to send that serial killer chocolates every week for good riddance, that was of course, only after Greg caught her.

"Okay, now to upload a photo. Freak, smile!"

Sherlock gave his most fearsome glare as Donovan clicked a photo of him, and connected the camera to the desktop triumphantly. Sherlock looked away as he saw his latest text. A new case!

He strode out of there promptly, with Greg following him and a shout of, "Donovan!" She strode to walk out of Lestrade's cabin when Anderson pulled her by her wrist. They both grinned knowingly. Sherlock hadn't closed the browser window, and he certainly wasn't going to log into his account again.

"Want to take it all out?" Donovan smirked, and clicked on "Interested In", changing it to **:** Men.

* * *

A black limo pulled up in front of the gates of a large mansion, with a swimming pool on the other side and palm trees adorning the garden. From the doors of the mansion to the gate of the entrance, tough looking security guards stood in a line as the door opened in anticipation for James Moriarty, the city's most fearsome don, and a jumpy little character in a two-piece suit. His body guards saluted him as he approached the car. Jim rolled his eyes at them and took a good look of his handsome face in the tinted glass of the bulletproof limo, checking himself out shamelessly. Jim had always dreamt of being an actor when he first came to London. Soon, before he knew it, he was rotting in a care of a stepmother and with the only lovable character in the house being John Watson, his step-mother's son. Not long after, Jim's father married another woman, whose son Sebastian became bosom friends with him. Jim might be the god of the underworld, but his passion for acting still hadn't died even after all these years.

Jim wanted to be an actor, but he ended up becoming a gangster. But whenever he saw his reflection, the true actor inside him rose like an animal rising from hibernation. He now had only one dream, that his dearly beloved stepbrother John must marry a decent boy and live happily ever after like those handsome princes in children's tales. But why in God's good name would a decent boy marry a Don's brother, if only step? So that's why, he had his own formula to talk with the "good" fella in his own style.

Like the good brothers that they were, Jim and Sebastian took it upon their shoulders to find a boy for their sweet little Johnny when John tried to reassure them that he could find a boyfriend on his own. For the past, John had had bastards for boyfriends. One of them left him at the altar, the other left him to make out with John's receptionist in his own private clinic. But most of the time, John broke up with them. Somehow, the love and the habit to play with risk and danger had rubbed off onto him from his brothers. He got tired, he hated the quietude and the routine that fell upon his life as a result, and most of his boyfriends were with him only because of his money. So, Jim and Sebastian took it upon themselves to find John a husband and let their little brother leave in peace with his clinic and his daily work.

Today, Jim had a meeting with the owner of a steel mill in Germany, whose son had taken an attraction to John when he had been invited to the inauguration of Jim's hotel. With the alliance, Jim's business would prosper and John would've found himself a nice, respectable, _decent_ , and very handsome husband. Jim could make a person say "wow" over and over again like a tape-recorder with the show of grandeur and his yachts. That was where he had been meeting that boy, and more importantly, his parents.

"Everything is God given," Jim would begin humbly while crossing his legs in a comfortable show of power, with his set dialogue for everyone, "Health, wealth, respect in the city, in actually the whole country..."

Jim threw a death glare at one of his companions, who coughed at the last word very pointedly.

He turned to his in-laws-to-be with a heavenly smile on his face, "SO much that if I were to marry my dearest brother to _any_ man, there is no denying that it would be a certain yes."

The in-laws-to-be smiled back at Jim in agreement, as he spoke about how great and how vast his businesses were, and how he had named all of them after John.

"A decent boy is very hard to come by, a decent family much less..."

"But," the boy's father interrupted. In usual cases, Jim would have loaded all the barrels of his revolver into that man's brain for having interrupted him, in this case...

"But, we really haven't the faintest idea about the businesses you were talking about. For example, John Airlines.... John Textiles and Company?"

As if right on cue, Jim heard a jubilant scream coming from somewhere outside, out in the waters at a distance from his yacht. His smile faded as he realised that it was his crackpot of a lawyer, Crayhill.

"Sir!" Crayhill shouted, almost enough to shatter all the glass panes, "I have such good news that you'll want to jump off the face of the Earth and go to the moon."

"Great, simply great," Jim groaned to himself. His two companions, one with crutches and the other, a bald headed man he used to use as his sniper, groaned in unison as Crayhill came rushing into where Jim had been sitting with the "decent" family.

"Sir, you won't believe the double good news I've brought for you, sir! One phone call, and the mention of your name did all the magic, sir!"

Jim slumped against the back of the sofa, knowing that he would have to go back with nothing but spilled milk, "Is that so?"

"Oh, that Abbey murder case on you, it's all resolved now, sir! I told the brother, sir, that if he would ever press charges against you, you'll destroy his whole family, sir!"

Jim could seriously hear a sax playing in his ears, making fun of him for all his efforts being dashed over mud. He stole a look at the scandalised family, who gasped, horrified at the "good news".

"And," Crayhill didn't stop there, "Richter took his police complaint back, wants to settle it with you, sir! I have the twenty million in my briefcase here, sir, and the rest thirty, he'll surrender over to you on Thursday, sir!"

By this time, if it were a cartoon, Crayhill the lawyer would have clearly seen smoke coming out of Jim's ears like from a pressure cooker. Nevertheless, he passed the teapot to the horrified family, who looked like they had made their decision.

"Tea?" He tried to smile innocently and failed miserably.

* * *

Jim stared helplessly as the decent family made a run for it in their speedboat. He let out a defeated exhale as Crayhill stared at him incredulously.

"Who were they, sir?" asked Crayhill's apprentice. Jim finally snapped, and dragging him by his collar, threw him overboard.

"GO and fucking ask them!" He bellowed, and wanted to crumble in a heap of skin and bones. It was so bad, so stupid! Every time Jim managed to find a decent and fairly well-off boy for John, he either ended up as a sham after Jim's money, or they came to know about Jim's real businesses.

Crayhill gulped as Jim fretted around the deck frantically. One of Jim's companions supplied helpfully, "They came with a marriage proposal for John—"

"From Germany!" Jim bellowed frustrated with everything, as Crayhill winced, "First get a boy, then a gay boy, and then a decent gay boy, and then a decent gay boy from a fucking decent and well-off family! Fuck decent!" He shouted at Crayhill, "Had to tell them a thousand lies! I was making a fucking fool of myself with John Airlines and John Textiles and John Hopkins Hospital!"

"S-s-sorry, sorry sir!" Crayhill stammered, "I-I thought-in-in excitement—"

"What the hell do you mean by 'excitement'?" He yelled, "Where the hell am I sitting, who the bloody hell am I talking to, what am I talking about, can't you process it-control, Jim," he drew a sharp breath and closed his eyes, fisting his hands... "Oi, Legless," he called the companion with the crutches, "tell him what the fuck I can do when I get angry!"

Almost immediately, as if a prose learnt by heart, Legless began in a bland, expressionless voice, "I have a prosthetic leg. I was a big-shot hockey champion. One day, Mr. Moriarty got angry with me about something or other and he broke my two legs into four pieces with my own hockey stick," Crayhill cringed in fear at that but Legless continued his verse, "but being a good man at heart, he immediately took me to a hospital, got an operation done with a prosthetic leg. He gave me these crutches and-"

"Yeah, yeah, shut up!" Jim snapped, as Crayhill turned back to him, literally trembling with fear at Jim's nonchalant pose seething with fury, "Now tell me, what should I do to you?"

"S-s-sir," he stammered, "I-I thought that if-if I g-gave you two-two-two good—doog, sorry-good n-news.... you'll p-pat my b-back," with this, he gestured to his back and tried to make a visual of those pats. Jim turned to his seven feet tall body guard, and motioned to him to give to Crayhill _exactly_ what he needed. By the looks of things, a quick congratulatory pat was out of the option.

"Control, Jim," he took in deep breaths, "Control."

* * *

"Philip! PHILIP!" Donovan called Anderson over to her desk as they were about to leave for the day and Anderson had to give to Greg the test results for some sample that he had passed on to the forensic expert, "Look! Come over! See this!"

Anderson strode over to Donovan's desk and peered into the monitor. She had opened the dating website that Sherlock had signed up for a week ago. In fact she was in Sherlock's account, having changed the password for it. The impossible had happened. Someone had actually messaged Sherlock back, even after the devilish glare as a profile picture that Donovan had set up for him.

"Jesus!" Philip looked at her, "We've got to tell Lestrade! The freak actually—"

On the screen, there was the photo of a blond young man with a charming smile.

"Victor Trevor." They both rolled the name together on their tongue. The name was too normal, too strangely normal for Sherlock.

"You gonna tell him?" Donovan asked him, but Anderson shook his head vehemently.

"Neither am I... but Lestrade's gonna find out eventually... he's awfully protective of the freak—"

"You know, he's got a name," came a strict voice from behind them. Lestrade was looking down at his Detective Sergeant and the forensic analyst. Greg crossed his arms, "What's all the fuss about?"

Donovan didn't speak, simply pointed to the screen, at the notification: one unread message.


	2. Getting John A Boy (In Sebastian Style)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anybody was confused by the side characters, let me introduce them to you.
> 
> Crayhill: Jim's lawyer (he's canon, if you remember TRF Old Bailey trial, he was Jim's attorney)  
> Legless (the hockey stick incident one) and Baldy: Jim's companions, mainly for humour  
> Skinny and Fatty: Seb's companions, again mainly for humour.
> 
> My stories aren't betaed, so I'm sorry for any SPaG errors

"Stop the cars!" Screamed a fat man, firing bullets at the incoming traffic. Suddenly, before Sherlock even knew, all cars, even an ambulance, were skidding to a halt, creating a pileup of vehicles near the highway. His own cab came to a sudden stop and he and Molly, who had been going to St. Bart's, lurched forward. There were gangsters swarming everywhere, firing bullets from their handguns at the tyres of any car that dared to move. One of them even shot the wailing ambulance siren into silence.

"Hands up! Nobody move!"

"What the hell is this?!" Sherlock demanded from the cabbie, who only cringed in fear and rolled up the windows he had lowered in order to ask people in the other cars about what had happened. Beside him, Molly shifted away from the windows and towards Sherlock, scared out of her wits. He had just reached for his phone to text Greg when he heard a tapping at the windows, and a handgun pointed at him. Knowing better than to attempt a text as the roughneck banged it against the window, Sherlock got out of the car and the bullies yanked the phone from his grip. The cabbie had already gotten out of there, cowering in terror and Molly trembled helplessly against him.

"Get out of your cars, you scallywags or it's you we'll fire the next set of bullets at!" The bully yelled at the others as they scrambled for dear life. Molly and Sherlock raised their palms, surrendering, sinking to their knees for some reason only God knew about.

"Freeze!"

Sherlock wondered what was happening as he froze in a 'on-your-marks-get-set-go' pose, his poor Belstaff fluttering in the wind as the bully pointed his gun at it. Sherlock tried not to growl at that. Molly froze with a salute. One of the guys who were attempting to climb a car froze in that very pose.

"Nobody move!"

Trying to control his pounding heart rate, Sherlock muttered while keeping his head down, "W—what's happening?"

"Can't you see?!" Said the man, yelling in Sherlock's ears and brandishing the handgun at him. Sherlock wanted to point out that the safety was clicked off, "Our boss is making a painting!"

The "artist" was obscured by a canvas mounted on a tripod stand in the comfortable shade of a age-tonic ad banner. A black limo was parked behind it and two tough-looking bodyguards dressed in black and armed with guns were standing on his side, one of them holding a palate for him in which he dipped his brush, and the other one holding a beaker of water. He looked like he must be working with oil paints, and yet he was using water as a medium.

And he called himself an artist. Sherlock thought he hadn't seen a greater fool in his entire life. He frowned at massive strain on credulity as he raised his head, eyeing the supposed boss making a painting of a hijacked highway. "What the—?"

"Shut up!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. No one asked Sherlock Holmes to shut up, not even some criminal boss. He straightened up and pulled his coat collar upwards, and with a tug at the scarf looped around his neck, he took it off and tossed it away dramatically, letting it flutter and land onto the unsuspecting roughneck's head.

"Hello! This is no way to stop cars in the middle of a street and staging an accident just to make a  _painting_! Who is this crazy boss of—oh, bugger!"

Sherlock literally leapt off the ground and onto the bonnet of a nearby car as gunshots rang out behind him—or to be precise, a scantful centimetres from his feet, "Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, sorry! Sorry!" He put his hands up as he knelt on the bonnet of the car with the engine radiator still releasing heat. At Sherlock's frantic exclamation, the boss peeked from the top of his canvas board at the perpetrator.

Sebastian "Romeo" Moran was the city's second most fearsome don, step-brother to James Moriarty, and double step-bother to John Watson. Clad in a rad black suit with the first two buttons of his hip-looking shirt undone and a belt studded with diamonds, he reached out to take his goggles off. But instead of taking them off the way real and  _normal_ people do, the goggles parted from the centre. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the extraordinary man as he snorted at the sight of Sherlock kneeling over the bonnet of the car with his hands up in the air.

Sebastian might be the city's second most fearsome don and James Moriarty's right (and left) hand man, but he was a romantic at heart (hence the nickname "Romeo"). He spent most of his time bullying around the city with his two companions, Fatty and Skinny, who at this moment, had their handguns pointed at Sherlock's temples, and the rest of his time painting. A true romantic at heart.

With a cool nonchalant air, Seb laughed to himself and continued on his masterpiece, "Lucky as hell, you are. I don't touch guns the day I have the brush in my hand. Otherwise, you'd have been blown up by now."

"No, erm.... If I may be so bold as to interject my professional opinion," Sherlock stuttered a lot like Molly did. The corners of Sebastian's lips twitched in amusement, "Painting is a product of imagination... not really by causing an accident—"

"Useless, stupid painters might do that," Sebastian exclaimed with a yawn, and grinned at the horrible masterpiece, "I make live paintings, dearie. Out of real life. I capture the  _reality_ , the agony of real people."

Last week, Sebastian's romanticism had hit an all new level. Right in broad daylight, his henchmen had stopped the traffic on the London Bridge and told all the people to get out of their cars. They asked everyone one-by-one whether they knew how to swim. Whoever answered in the positive was thrown into the river from the bridge because Sebastian wanted to make the painting of swimming men. Last month, his men barged into the control room of the Millennium Bridge to stop it from letting a steamer pass, just because Sebastian wanted to draw a steamer.

"Oi, stop growling!" The roughneck standing behind Sherlock smacked him on his head, "If the painting don't go well—"

"Doesn't," Sherlock exclaimed under his breath, thoroughly scandalised at the deconstruction of English language by the common man.

"What?!" The roughneck demanded. Molly, a metre away let out a squeak, but Sherlock rolled his eyes despite his kneecaps burning because of the exhaust heart from the car engine radiator.

"It's not 'don't', it's 'doesn't'."

Sebastian craned his neck to steal another glance at Sherlock. The young man did look like he was well-off and decent enough to protest against the intentional accident. So this was how real decent people looked like. Seb certainly had now conjured an image in his mind about that, except that Sherlock was in no way as decent as he supposed him to be in his crisp and proper suit and well-tailored pair of trousers clinging possessively to his thighs.

"If the painting  _doesn't_  go well, he will make sure that he hunts your wife and kids down, and hurt them real bad."

Sherlock barked out a laugh, "I'm not married, stupid! I don't even have a boyfriend! See," he jabbed his ring finger in the direction of the man, "No ring, and no white p—"

"Shut up!" Fatty shouted.

This time, Sebastian did a double take at Sherlock. Tall, not to mention good-looking, nice hairstyle, leather shoes, regard for proper language and perfectly decent  _gay_  fella with proper sense of fashion and quite well-off. He'd be perfect for little Johnny. He left his brush on the palate and strutted across to a helpless Sherlock, who was muttering to himself angrily, "This is absolute madness, making complete fools out of innocent peeps like me..."

He broke off from his monologue as he felt himself slipping. Sebastian's second companion, Skinny clicked the safety off, "Oi, don't move!"

Sherlock let out an all-suffering sigh, "I'm slipping!"

"Sleeping?!"

"Not sleeping, stupid," he snarled, "Slipping! SLIPPING—!"

He stopped abruptly as Sebastian approached him, eyeing his coat warily and then smirking up at him, "Take it off."

The size of Sherlock's eyes doubled and narrowed at the same time, "What the—no!"

"This maybe the last friendly thing you'll ever hear from a human mouth. Take your coat off, and give it to me."

Molly gulped behind him, and moved to ease the coat from Sherlock's shoulders as Sherlock watched as if his world had come to a halt. As if he was devastated.

"Sherlock, give him the coat—"

"You there!" Fatty pointed the gun at her, "Stay back."

Molly let out another little squeal and almost jumped back. Sebastian patted his shoulder as the roughnecks forced his beloved coat out of him, and handed it over to Sebastian, who wore it happily and eyed Sherlock approvingly, who looked much less like a conspiracy theorist sans the big black coat. Also, he looked close to tears.

"How do I look?" Sebastian asked him gleefully as Sherlock's jaw muscles clenched with anger and frustration and helplessness.

"Like a donkey," Sherlock didn't care if they killed him right there. He was going to have the satisfaction of seeing that don's face seething with anger. Instead Sebastian simply smiled and walked away, beckoning Fatty to himself.

"Get me the biodata and the horoscope of this smartarse. With history and political science. Immediately."

* * *

Sherlock reached the NSY building, feeling naked as hell at having his beloved coat taken away by a couple (actually a couple dozen) of street-dons who liked painting "real things". He stormed into Lestrade's office with no Belstaff swishing behind him dramatically. Donovan didn't even realise it was him until she spotted the riot of dark curls on his head.

"Lestrade, this is too much!" He crossed his arms and plopped down on the chair in front of him, missing the feeling of his coat. He had even lost his scarf, but Lestrade sipped his coffee contentedly and watched Sherlock's irritated face with an amused smirk on his face.

"Goo' mo'ing to you too!" He wolfed down the hotdog roll as Sherlock continued to throw his sulk at him, " 'Sup?"

"Those dons, Moran, he took my coat! And my scarf! Do you get it, Lestrade? It was a limited edition coat, and now its gone and all this happened before you even finished your morning snack! This is bloody outrageous!"

"Just the thing I needed to make this day worse. Good morning, freak!" Donovan entered, carrying a laptop over for him. "We've got a reply waiting for you on the dating website."

Sherlock turned away from her, trying to curl into an impossibly small place only to find out that the chairs were very uncomfortable, "Go away!"

"Some bloke called Victor Trevor. I bet your brother sent him for ya!"

Lestrade snorted into his coffee, and Anderson materialised in front of them out of nowhere. Sherlock frowned, "Victor—? Wait a second—"

"We know you like blokes, freak," Donovan crossed her hands over her waist, smiling as though she had had some grand epiphany yesterday, "It's okay, you don't have to hide it anymore."

"And we all know how Anderson is cheating on you and his wife, don't we Anderson?"

"Shut up, Sherlock!" Lestrade bellowed, taking his legs off his desk, "Let's focus on the matter at hand—"

"Matter?" Sherlock cried incredulously, "The matter is that law and order in London is crumbling like sawdust, Lestrade—!"

Now it was Lestrade's turn to laugh, "You? Caring about  _law and order_? I break all laws letting you in on  _my_ crime scenes, you git!"

"That's another matter!" Sherlock protested, "This fellow caused a car accident just so that he could make a painting—!"

To his amazement, Lestrade started laughing hard and very inappropriately at that. Donovan's warning cough did nothing to stop that.

"—Molly was with me!" Sherlock spoke over his giggling, "She was scared to death."

Lestrade's laughter died away instantly, and he cleared his throat at once, "I'll of course, look into it, ahem! That was extremely unprofessional of me, sorry."

Sherlock settled back into his chair, "You better." After some moments of silence, Donovan began again, "Let's open it, then... Jesus, he's online! Freak, look here, he's online.... and he sent you a PM!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I don't need to marry a man, it's got to be a woman, Sally!"

Lestrade leant forward in his chair, "But you're—"

"Man or woman, it doesn't matter!" Sherlock protested, "Anyway, I'm going to see that person in court—!"

To his utter annoyance, Greg coughed pointedly and entered into a staring contest with Sherlock. Sherlock knew that he would be refused cases if didn't agree to it. He took a deep breath. It was all for a case, but he had expected for a woman replying to him. He cast his eyes over the "Interested In", which proudly displayed "Men". Lady serial killer, S-A-Y-O-N-A-R-A. He had a hunch that Lestrade had made up the case so that Sherlock atleast joined the dating website.

_'Matchmaker,' your online source for finding true love._

And still he protested, "This isn't even the case—" He grumbled, but Lestrade kicked him from under the table. Sherlock tried to kick back but Lestrade was too quick for it.

"Fine, what a beautiful way to start the morning(!)" he let out a defeated exhale and clicked at the new "Hi". He had to admit, this Victor Trevor fellow was physically appealing.

* * *

In his mansion, Jim had been making a house of cards in his sitting room. He had gotten up to fifth storey in the last fifteen minutes, all the wrinkles in the world gathered near his eyebrows and his face taut with concentration. A few yards away, on a treadmill, his lawyer Crayhill had been jogging for the past half an hour as a punishment for the over-excitement during the meeting with the decent family the earlier evening. Jim's two companions, Legless and Baldy were cracking jokes on the poor Crayhill as he panted, exhausted and out of breath.

"Sorry sir, please sir," he kept chanting, but James Moriarty wasn't a man who forgave easily, and certainly not when a mad lawyer came in the way of his little brother and his happiness.

"What the hell, big brother!" came a jolly voice from the hall as Sebastian made his way to Jim sitting on the sofa, his fingers quivering as he started with the sixth storey of his house of cards, "I've been calling you since ages, and here you are, making house out of cards when you already have a mansion!"

To Jim's extreme annoyance, Sebastian exhaled a deep breath and the house of cards dropped down into a wasted pile like his dreams about setting his dear brother John free from his criminal world. Nevertheless, he didn't reach for his gun sitting beside him, waiting to fire bullets into Sebastian's brain. He loved his brothers, he remembered, and muttered to himself, "Control, Jim, control."

Sebastian took no notice of it.

"How do I look?" Seb showed up in front of Jim, showing off Sherlock's greatcoat, "Cool, huh?"

"You look like a fucking donkey," Jim snapped, and Seb laughed.

"At least I've been up to something more productive today. I know I've beaten the fuck out of Picasso Da Pablo Vinci today, he he!"

Jim started, wondering what Picasso Da Pablo Vinci was, "What?"

Sebastian beamed proudly at him, "Not me, look there. Over  _there_." He motioned to the foyer where Seb's companions, Fatty and Skinny were holding a rendition of the accident scene up for Jim to see, grinning widely at their two bosses. By the looks of the painting, an accident was definitely not worth it. It was simply a litany of caricatures in black with a pink coloured ambulance and a very yellow coloured Sherlock kneeling over the bonnet of a green coloured London Black Cab.

At least he had got the curls right. The cheekbones done in two black strokes protruded right out of this face (literally).

Oh, and his scarf, which lay on Fatty's head in the picture was fluorescent pink, and his coat a weird colour that God hadn't invented yet. Seb grinned widely at his "masterpiece", and then turned to Jim, who rolled his eyes at him out of exasperation. He plucked a peanut out of an ashtray and ground it between his teeth, "Seems the German party ran away too..."

"Stupid wankers," Jim cursed, seeing no point in rebuilding the house of cards.

"May I ask you a question?"

Jim wasn't surprised in the slightest at the manner in which Seb actually requested to ask a question, he simply let out a defeated exhale. The handgun lying beside him was starting to look real friendly, "Go on."

"Is John your real brother?"

"He's much more than a "real" brother to me," Jim growled absentmindedly.

"Yeah, yeah, I know that," Seb scratched his head and crossed his legs, "But is he your  _brother_  brother?"

"Because I'm such a bastard and he's such an angel, that's why you're asking, yes? Jacob Moriarty, my daddy married twice—"

"Yeah yeah, I fucking know that, bro. Daddy married twice, unlike John who can't even manage one!"

"One? What d'you mean by 'manage one'? We want him to marry  _only_ once unlike my—!"

"Exactly bro, control," Sebastian went on, "And that isn't happening, is it? No decent guy wants his boyfriend to be from a criminal establishment!"

Jim's eyes widened at that, "It astounds me that you can say 'establishment' properly."

Sebastian flushed with pleasure, "Don't go letting on sweet compliments to me, Jim." Jim looked for a hint of sarcasm in his voice. There wasn't any.

"If there's one thing I want for John," Jim leaned back against the sofa, "is that he goes away from me forever. I've lived my life in the risk that something would happen to him because of me, and I can't let that happen to him. I need him to start a new life, a better life without us so that he at least forgets what it was like living under the constant fear of being kidnapped or being held for ransom—"

"Exactly, brother, and that's what is gonna happen now," Sebastian clapped his hands in glee, snapping Jim out of the harsh memories of old times he had escaped into as he patted Jim's thigh before turning towards his masterpiece proudly, "Your problem's solve is in that painting of mine."

Jim squinted and focussed his eyes on the white canvas board, resisting the urge to tell him that it was 'solution' not 'solve'. The harder he tried, the more it escaped him. Sebastian provided his helpful input, "Do you see that guy?"

His eyes narrowed as he tried to find a human figure in the caricatures, "What guy?" Seb turned to him, the smile fading at Jim's poor vision. He shook his head.

"Eh, the one sitting on the bonnet."

Now Jim looked for a bonnet. He wasn't sure what was what in the picture anymore, "Where's the bonnet?"

"Under the guy, obviously," Seb stated, obviousness dripping from his tone. Jim now could see the guy  _and_  the bonnet.

"Right."

"He is the sort of guy who protests against anything, even if you say 'didn't' instead of 'doesn't' or the ones who cry when their toys are taken away. You know, like the decent ones do, always fighting for rights, like our John—"

"These decent ones are the worst ones on the planet, they don't understand the language of decency at all—"

"Right, and for that very reason, I'll solve this matter by myself. I'll have his biodata in my pocket by tomorrow, and I'll talk to this decent smartarse in my own style, or better, his family. I won't have you interfering at all."

Jim sagged against the arm of the sofa, propping his forehead against his palms and looking completely bored at that. He shook his head pre-occupiedly, and pushed Sebastian away as he rose to take the matter between John and this supposedly decent Sherlock in his own hands.


	3. Getting Himself A Boy (In John Style)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought that if a straight John could be so cheeky with women, maybe a gay John would be equally cheeky with men.
> 
> Be warned, this chapter is epic crack and defies some laws of physics (maybe, but I think it doesn't, but still). You can say that I was inspired by Hangover 2

In Sherlock's opinion, men were worse than women. His date with Victor Trevor was starting to confirm that.

Victor was handsome, charming, moderately intelligent, seemingly normal. Fairly good looking and quite attractive, Sherlock decided although that really didn't matter to him except for the purposes of being eye-candy. He had no pets, so that was a welcome relief. He didn't try to flaunt himself, or his money or how successful he was and all the stupid things that men usually talked about. Mostly he was silent and he was occasionally funny. In fact their sense of humour was quite close (if you define the average distance between two stars as close). Sherlock, under the combined glare and support of Donovan, Lestrade and Anderson and under the extreme pressure of no cases, complied cheerfully while Donovan typed out most of his responses.

So, to the Victor on the other side of the line, Sherlock Holmes appeared to be a childish jerk whose sense of humour was quite close to his.

And now, on an actual date with Sherlock, it appeared like as if Victor had remembered each and every single of that.

Victor was handsome, charming, seemingly normal. Did Sherlock mention that he hated normal? Well, he wasn't disappointed, at least.

They headed to a really nice steakhouse somewhere in Knightsbridge where their "date" was going well enough. He seemed interested in the concept of 'a consulting detective' and Sherlock's childish view of the world. Sherlock's cheeks had begun to hurt when he looked around, feeling a little (extremely) bored and constantly counting down to the time his alarm app would signal that three hours were over and that he could take cases on again, and then, greyish sea green eyes met navy blue ones.

Blond, no, ash-blond, five foot six dressed simply in a jeans and a jacket over his button-down shirt, sitting over by the bar and eyeing him and his date. Sherlock forced himself to look away, feeling a little weird at the unnecessary attention being imposed on him from two sides. Was he looking _that_ good?

That man turned away, and Sherlock's stomach dropped back into the pit it was in. He thought that maybe if that stranger looked at him again, maybe he could save him from his disastrous date.

Sherlock looked back again. The man looked back too, and their eyes lingered over each others' faces. It was clear as hell that the stranger was reconsidering him, in fact attracted to him. It might have been a little less obvious if that stranger had shouted it out to everyone.

Sherlock turned away miserably. Of all the people in the world, why did the stranger have to be gay as well? Couldn't he have been a straight stranger, and just rescued him from Victor Trevor?

After appetizers and his third martini, Victor really opened up. And what entails "opening up", well. . .

Victor started to speak baby talk to him, "Would you wike a wittle kissy-wissy?"

Sherlock frowned, "Excuse me?"

"Aw," he joined his hands together and leaned forward, "Cho chweet! Excuse we!"

Sherlock was completely horrified. What the hell had gotten into Victor? Maybe it was the martini, "Erm. . . Victor, are you alright?"

To his utter horror, Victor reached out for his nonexistent cheeks and pinched them painfully, "Poor baby darling! Let me come there and give you a little wee-wee!"

With that, he reached over and in a clumsy imitation of the Eskimos, he rubbed his nose against Sherlock's callously. He could hear the rest of the restaurant people jeering at that. Sherlock was definitely okay with not-normal, but not this.

Thankfully, the steaks arrived at that exact moment and Victor reached across the table to cut Sherlock's meat for him. Sherlock looked up at the waiter to see the same handsome blond smirking down at him in an all-unknown brand of pure amusement, this time in a waiter's uniform and serving them their steaks. Sherlock coughed down the humiliation at being treated like a baby and shoved Victor's knife away. Sadly, it wasn't sharp enough to cut through the epidermal layer of his skin.

He removed the lids to reveal the rare steak and a small gift card in it. Sherlock looked up at the blond man again, and looked down to read it.

**_7957905046\. John._ **

**_Text me if you're going through hell._ **

Sherlock frowned at John's retreating figure and his eccentric way of hitting on Sherlock. Sherlock decided to take the fall. John seemed perfectly not-normal and interesting. No one usually talked to him without consulting for a case. John seemed a nice change, and at least anyone was better than Victor Trevor.

 ** _What's in it for you? SH_** Sherlock typed under the table as Victor continued to fuss over him and calling him mortifying names like "montu-shontu", "Winnie the Pooh" and telling him what a cute otter he would make and all about honey and "kissy-wissy"s.

He cast his eyes around to see John typing into his phone, a small smile dancing around his lips. Sherlock watched his facial expressions intently as Victor talked with his mouth full of food.

**_Saving your behind ;)_ **

Sherlock rolled his eyes and found himself being watched by John.

**_Emoticons, really? And here I was thinking that you were. . . SH_ **

His heart fluttered a little out of rhythm when he saw John typing his reply. He turned his attention back to the little phone under the table, eagerly awaiting his reply, and he had no idea why.

**_That I am what?_ **

At once Sherlock began to type it rapidly, feeling John's eyes assessing him. Victor asked him out for a second date, and Sherlock did not respond.

**_You're not a waiter. You're a doctor, you have your private clinic, I can tell from this distance, and yet, here you are, serving me my steak. Why's that? SH_ **

He did want to know that. At the first glance itself, John seemed to be full of contradictions and oxymorons, he definitely deserved to merit a second look, second glance by Sherlock. His mind had memorised John's existence exquisitely by now.

He glanced across at him. His eyes were not surprised, or even frightened. He looked. . . curious and a little wary of him. Why wary? Interesting.

**_How do you know that?_ **

Sherlock tried not to smile at that as he typed his text.

**_Your ears. The inner pinna is slightly dented; hard earpiece of a stethoscope hence doctor. Plus, you pulled out the napkin the wrong way, hence definitely not a waiter. You're quite well off and you're not used to taking orders, that watch on your wrist and your manner at our table tells me that. You must have your own clinic. SH_ **

He held his breath and sent it before he could rethink his decision. Time to see how really different John was. He saw John's eyes widen, a tongue snaking out and licking his lower lip carefully. His brows furrowed as he processed the explanation. Then, to Sherlock's complete surprise, John's face broke into a lopsided grin and he looked directly into Sherlock's eyes, his own gleaming with wonder, something that Sherlock was not used to at all.

**_Great, you know everything about me, and I don't even know your name. That was fantastic, by the way, and every single of that true._ **

Sherlock let his lips twitch into a half smile, his whole body tightened and tensed and he felt a frisson of excitement amplifying out from his solar plexus and travelling down through all of his limbs, making his fingertips and toes tingle with anticipation.

  ** _Sherlock Holmes. You think that was brilliant? SH_**

". . .And then, this baby comes up to me," Victor was saying some rubbish about planned parenthood and their comparison with cows and sheep, but Sherlock wasn't paying him one ounce of attention.

**_Absolutely. It was amazing. . ._**

Those words turned around the entire evening for Sherlock. He sent a smirk in John's direction and continued reading the rest of his text.

**_. . .Anyway, my brother owns this place, so I can do whatever I want to. Including waiting._ **

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at that. Definitely a rich guy. Sherlock desperately hoped John wasn't like other rich guys, snobbish and total dicks.

**_Amazing. . . that's not what people normally say. SH_ **

He saw John frowning at that and instantly set down for texting.

**_What do people normally say?_ **

**_Piss off. SH_ **

Sherlock was a little pleased and a little alarmed to see John snort at that. When Victor began troubling him too much with the second date and how he would discuss various brands of nappies then, with a cough that was as curt as to be as rude as it could be, Sherlock excused himself to the lavatory to contemplate his escape routes.

"Do you need help wiping?" Victor asked, making Sherlock bolt right out of there and shut the door behind him.

A second later, the door opened behind him and someone called his name softly in an unfamiliar albeit soothing voice, "Sherlock?"

After some deeps breaths to control his less-than-steady heart, Sherlock turned around to see John in front of him, his mouth ajar and the beginnings of a sympathetic smile hanging around on the corners of his lips.

"Um, I was just listening in on your date. Your guy has put a pacifier on your plate. Do you. . . need to get out the back, maybe?"

Sherlock gulped, and looked at John hopefully, "You'd do that?"

John shrugged, "These guys allow me. Come on."

With that, John winded up sneaking Sherlock through the backdoor of the kitchen. As Sherlock wrapped his newest and longer scarf around his neck and looked at John, he found his attention completely fixed on the shorter man in front of him. He was alluring, he was different, he helped Sherlock and he couldn't be more grateful for saving him from a perfectly grown up man baby-feeding him his steak and—

"I'm John Watson," John extended his hand invitingly towards Sherlock. He took it, feeling his skin against his palms sensitive from the various chemical stains on them, "Sherlock Holmes, again."

John nodded like he was committing the name to his permanent memory, "If you wouldn't mind, maybe I can give you a chance to. . . know more about me," he licked his lips again, and Sherlock found himself watching it and mirroring his actions. A buzz interrupted the intense eyesex they were having.

**_Sneaked out on your date. Forty five min. No cases. Lestrade_ **

Sherlock groaned when he spotted the CCTV camera near the entrance focussed on a Victor sitting all alone. John's eyes narrowed when he heard the groan but he did not dare to read the text. After all, he didn't know this Sherlock Holmes. He had only rescued him. And he'd like to know him, very much.

 ** _He was baby-talking to me. What else was I supposed to do? SH_** He sent the furious reply. John shuffled to his feet, "Erm. . . I hope I'm not distracting you."

Sherlock looked up from the phone to John, "I'm thankful that you did. . ." then his brows furrowed and he looked at John with the same suspicion with which John had surveyed him earlier, "Why. . . did you save me back there?"

John fought tooth-and-nail to hide a smirk as he straightened up, folding his arms behind his back, "I don't know. . . I thought you needed rescuing. . ."

"I didn't," Sherlock protested, "I was going to walk out of there anyway!" John stifled a snort at that as he crossed his arms, smiling amusedly.

"Really? Let's get you back there and see how well you cope."

Sherlock's eyes betrayed a moment of panic at that and then they masked themselves with haughtiness, "You were hitting on me. Back there. . . no one goes to such extraordinary lengths to rescue a stranger from a disaster date."

"Well," John shrugged sheepishly, "otherwise you would've blown up my restaurant."

That was a turn-off for Sherlock as he hurtled off in another direction. John realised he shouldn't have said that and cursed his stupidity at having blown off such an interesting and hot guy, if only a jerk.

"Hey, hey, hey," John grabbed Sherlock's arm, "Sorry, I'm sorry to offend you. I really am. Look, if there's anything I can do to make it up for you—"

Sherlock eyed the grip on his arm murderously, and John let go off him. He huffed irritably as if he were annoyed at John for having creased his precious suit-jacket.

"Well, if you need a ride, I can give you a ride home—"

Great, John bit his tongue. Just when he met a perfect guy, he had to blow it up by saying things he shouldn't say. If he were in Sherlock's place, he would probably have ripped their head off for suggesting such a thing.

Okay, maybe nothing as grotesque as that. But a punch in the gut, surely.

"I don't _need_ a ride home, I'm not a child!" Sherlock protested, but didn't storm off. John took it as a positive sign, at least.

"You don't need, I know. . . but I—I offended you, I'm sorry and I want to make it up to you."

Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, and his brows furrowed even more dangerously when his phone buzzed and his face lit up under the synthetic light of his mobile phone, casting shadows around his face. John's heart stopped, because it seemed like Sherlock's decision depended upon the text which had just arrived.

With a defeated exhale, he accepted, showing John the much private rectangular slab that was Sherlock's jealously guarded phone. At least he seemed like the one who would jealously guard it. John observed a slight smile dancing around the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He told himself that it was because of him.

**_Tyre punctured, no cash. Pick me up at NSY or no cases. Lestrade_ **

John let out a snort, the back of his mind still fixed on 'no cases', "Well, this Lestrade guy might be a jerk but at least he persuaded you for a ride with me."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath which suspiciously sounded like, "I'd have gone anyway." John congratulated himself and turned the engine on. He noticed that Sherlock simply didn't ask this Lestrade to stuff it but rather willingly got into John's car.

"So, you're a lawyer, huh?" He asked conversationally, eyeing Sherlock out of the corner of his eye while the better of his vision was fixed on the road in front of them leading into London. Sherlock gave a little cough of mortification fused with displeasure as the streets rolled past them.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, the guy did say cases."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I'm a detective. I believe the more appropriate term would be "consulting" detective."

John snorted at the air-quotes he made, trying not to let a tendril of unease seep into his mind at the mention of 'detective'. "What does that mean?"

"Means that I _pick_ my cases."

"How's that different from a private detective?" John asked, sounding a bit confused. Sherlock proceeded to explain it eagerly, seeing as no one had really asked him what his trade really was.

"Well, when detectives fail, all kinds like the police ones like his fellow," he showed him his phone, "they consult me and I manage to set them on the right track."

"That is if they don't punch you in the face first," John chuckled, and Sherlock appeared deeply surprised.

"How did you know _that_?" he whispered as if it ought to be a grand secret, or perhaps wondering how John had managed to deduce that. John was about to say that he was only joking when he really, _really_ thought about it and thought that maybe he should say something much more interesting.

"Work it out," he said, throwing Sherlock a look from the dashboard mirror. Sherlock returned it with a smirk, feeling flattered by John's attentions. But—

"John," Sherlock brought out his well-prepared, well-practiced dialogue without thinking what he really wanted, "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I really don't have the desire to enter the curiously engaging concept of dating."

John let out a defeated exhale, "Alright, fine. But I'm doing this as a human being, not just because. . . you know. . ."

"I know what?" Sherlock tested him.

"Do you want me to throw you out of the car?"

"No problem, I can get a cab anytime."

John bit the insides of his cheeks. So, Sherlock wasn't interested. Moving on. . .

"Then. . . why were you on a date. . . with that pacifier guy?" John tried to reason it. Sherlock exhaled slowly.

"If you must know, I—watch out!"

John had almost slammed into a lamp post. A last minute swerve and several cursing drivers later, John, to Sherlock's extreme surprise, ended up in a laughing fit. He looked like he had gone into seizure. Sherlock shook his arm, "John?!"

"Jesus, that was just—God!" He burst out laughing, and Sherlock found himself chuckling with that. Minus the fact that they had just survived an accident, it felt wonderful to laugh together as one. John felt an immense desire to go back and repeat it again, just to feel that high, a high he had never felt before. People were starting to look at those two crazy blokes, but John didn't mind, and neither did Sherlock.

"We're crazy, aren't we? I swear you're crazy!"

"Well, you're the one who almost crashed your car into a lamp post," said he, chuckling slightly, and John nudged him in the ribs before making out of there again and towards New Scotland Yard.

After ten minutes, John and Sherlock had a bewildered Lestrade and Donovan in the backseat, watching the two in the front seat having intense (and awkward for them) eyesex punctuating every sentence that came out of John's mouth. They could see that this man was certainly not Victor Trevor, but anyway Lestrade was glad anyway that Sherlock was taking fancy to a guy finally.

Even though he claimed he didn't.

And it was very awkward for Lestrade and Donovan sitting there, watching the two of them.

"Oi, eyes on the road!"

John swerved dangerously close to another lamp post, making Sherlock chuckle with silent laughter as if it were a private joke between the two of them.

"So," Lestrade began, "Do you owe him money or something?"

John shot Sherlock an amused look, "Oh no, I met him this evening. I rescued him when his date put a pacifier on his plate."

Lestrade's mind fumbled to keep up. Pacifier? What? And they had met this evening and already had a private joke? Was he going to have to prepare for the Best Man's speech anytime soon? Perhaps the next Monday?

Donovan snorted with amusement, "Sorry _what_ , freak? That—that Victor guy put a pacifier on your plate?!"

This time, John met Sherlock's eyes again, this time not crinkling with amusement but greeting him with a frown, "Freak?"

Donovan coughed to herself, reprimanding her unprofessional behaviour, "Nothing erm. . ."

"He's not a freak," John protested, but Donovan cut in.

"Yeah, you're saying this because he hasn't done—"

"Yes, he has told me about my whole life story just by looking at my ears and my manners. And that isn't being a freak—"

"John," Lestrade dived in, much to Sherlock's displeasure, "Eyes on the road, we're police officers."

Sherlock saw John stiffen slightly, but didn't over think it, took it as probably reluctance to spend the night in a cell, "Yes, sir."

Lestrade's lips twitched in amusement while he glared at Donovan, "Alright, good."

No one noticed Sherlock watching John out of the corner of his eye, as if re-evaluating his opinion of the man whose surprising character traits kept contradicting every new bit of information he gleaned from him.

"Oh bugger!" John swore. He seemed to be kicking hard at something. Sherlock figured that he couldn't be pressing the accelerator, they were just on the threshold of crossing the speed limit. Therefore the only other one could be—

"Tell me you guys won't freak out if I told you that the brakes have failed," John let it out all in one breath. Donovan let out a yelp, followed by a very undignified growl from Lestrade, "Pray tell me _what else we should DO!!!_ "

"Shut up, Lestrade," Sherlock bellowed, "We need to think how to survive this—"

"SURVIVE?!" Donovan screeched, "We're going to die, you freak!!"

" _What did you call him?!!!"_ John instantly sprang into angry mode as a result of the overdrive of adrenaline in his veins and in a blatant misuse of muscle power, broke the steering off.

"John, what the HELL??!" This time even Sherlock lost his artificial patience as John frantically tried to reattach the steering to the axle, "What the ACTUAL hell, John?!!"

"I am bad luck!" John swore miserably, banging his fists on the dashboard as the car continued to wobble, dashing into any corner or any unsuspecting car it felt like.

"Save ME!" Donovan screamed to anyone who cared to listen, while Lestrade tried to fumble around for a nonexistent crucifix, saying his last prayers to a God he previously didn't believe in.

"Watch out!" Sherlock yelled at a flatbed lorry crossing their path. Everyone looked up at it with dread. How much worse could their day get?

"DUCK!" John shouted as he shielded his head, reaching out to shield Sherlock and himself from the impact. The roof of the car came into abrupt contact with the flatbed with a resounding, ear-splitting crash as the window panes and the windscreen smashed to bits and pieces. When they finally got up, Sherlock noticed that Lestrade was missing and that a very Lestrade-like scream was coming out of somewhere.

Somewhere from behind the out-of-control car.

"Sally!" Sherlock let out a yelp as he tried to relieve the pressure on Donovan's throat, only to see the extraordinary sight on the street.

"What the hell?!" he yelled upon seeing his scarf around Donovan's neck choking her, and Lestrade seated on the car roof being pulled through the street and holding on to Sherlock's scarf choking Donovan's throat. The drivers and the traffic police watched in amazement at Detective Inspector Lestrade was being drawn by a car while holding on to a navy blue scarf choking his Detective Sergeant's throat.

Donovan kept gasping for oxygen, as Sherlock shouted to John, "Keep driving!"

John kept trying to reattach the steering to the axle, "No problem! Where the hell is Lestrade?!"

"On the street!" Sherlock bellowed back as he finally succeeded relieving the pressure on her neck. She coughed and spluttered violently in the backseat as Sherlock screamed to John.

"Take off the seat belt!"

John turned to him, looking at Sherlock as if he was completely out of his mind, "Are you mad?"

"Unfasten the seat belt!" Sherlock repeated, holding on to the scarf, knowing that Lestrade would probably be run over by a car if he let go of him.

John proceeded to unfasten his seatbelt, almost succeeding in doing so when Sherlock noticed and remedied him, "Not yours, mine. MINE!"

John looked like he suddenly had a very grand epiphany and went to unfasten the seatbelt across Sherlock's torso. Within minutes, it came apart as Donovan lay useless at the back of the car, still spluttering, breathing with discomfort. Sherlock took the scarf, and tied it around the broken door carefully, like a painter applying his final touches. Lestrade kept screaming as Sherlock bellowed to him.

"Take the scarf, and pull yourself onto the car!"

His eyes widened, because Sherlock had asked him to do the necessary and yet obviously impossible.

"No way. No _fucking_ way!"

"Trust me, Gavin!" Sherlock shouted, "Try and stand up. Donovan and I will hold on to your hand—"

"It's Greg!"

But before Sherlock could say 'not now, Gavin!', he could hear the sounds of a mob somewhere down where the car was headed.

"We shall die, but we will not move!" Came the united chorus of the protesters down the road. John, Sherlock and Donovan stared at the demonstration, complete with placards and slogans, in horror.

"What the fuck?!"

"We shall die, but we will not move from here!" the protesters sang. The rally was seated in the middle of the road. Most of the other cars were taking diversions to avoid the rioters.

It was indeed a _lovely_ day.

Donovan pointed to them in panic, "They're saying they aren't going to move!"

"You have to move!" John cried out, "Brake's failed!"

The tires screeched against the tar road as it made right for the head of the rioters like a bowling ball aimed for the pins. In a second, the entire crowd of construction workers cleared the area like ants scurrying away from under a trampling elephant. Lestrade kept screaming Sherlock's name out of panic and acute fright as Donovan held on to Sherlock's scarf as tightly as she could.

"Sherlock!" Donovan took his real name for the first time, "Take my legs!"

Sherlock didn't have time to spin around and frown, "What?!" at her, because at that very moment, the car gave an almighty lurch as it passed over a speed breaker. Donovan was literally lifted off the car, rested in mid-air and came to a landing behind Lestrade, now both of them holding on to Sherlock's brand new scarf, while John was too tossed off his seat and ended on his stomach on the bonnet, trying to grab whatever remained of the dashboard. Sherlock, who had been holding on to his seat remained rooted to the very spot he was in.

More people watched the show. One man on bonnet, one man in the seat adjacent to the driver's, and the DI and the DS surfing on the roof of the car holding on to a navy blue scarf. The demonstrators promptly went back to their peaceful protest, "We shall die, but we will not move!"

Now Sherlock was in real dismay. John, the one guy he really liked, was perched out on the bonnet calling for help from Sherlock, and on the other side Lestrade and Donovan, his long-standing colleagues who were the only ones consulting him for cases, were calling for his help. With one arm, he could hold on to John's hand, and with the other, he could barely reach Lestrade and Donovan.

"Sherlock, don't let go of us!" Donovan shrieked, "I'll never call you a freak, promise!"

"Sherlock, do something!" John yelled. Sherlock fumbled around helplessly, completely at his wits' end as John tried to pull himself up the bonnet and into the car when Sherlock spotted the redemption.

There was a mini lorry right in front of them. And a green ladder was poking out of its cargo. Yes, when the lorry came to a stop, the car would too, and they could all get off safely.

"Hang on, John!" Sherlock shouted, not letting go of John's hand.

"Sherlock Holmes, I _fucking_ let you in on cases and this is how you repay me?!"

"I'll do something!" Sherlock screamed, and holding onto John's hand, he stood on the car seat extending his other hand towards the ladder.

"Careful, Sherlock!" John shouted.

With enormous effort and shrieks from John, Lestrade and Donovan alike, Sherlock managed to pull the ladder towards the car and fit the headrest snugly between the two rungs of the ladder. John held on to the ladder as Sherlock tried to fix the other end of it to the lorry.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? What the fuck are you—?"

"Stop it Gavin! You're thinking, it's annoy—" But Sherlock could never finish his sentence as the car gave another lurch upon hitting another speed bump and Sherlock ended up on the ladder, unable to reach John or the car itself.

"Stop the bloody lorry!" He screamed, "STOP IT!"

"Sherlock!" John let out a panic-seized yell, while Donovan looked like she was about to faint.

"Oh dear God," Sherlock muttered calmly to himself upon seeing that there was a dead end ahead of them, and that the lorry was turning the other way, leaving the car to head out straight for the Tower Bridge just beginning to open for a ship to pass through.

"NO!" Everyone shouted in unison as the car spiralled out of control and made its way through the road blocks, making its ascent as the bridge became steeper. Lestrade seeing that he could make a safe landing, let go of the scarf as some of the car's kinetic energy decreased upon making the ascent. But the car had developed too much momentum, so much that it shot out from one end to the other end of the Tower bridge, with John and Sherlock almost in mid-air, with screams that they definitely couldn't hear, not with the blood surging in their ears.

The car came to a stop only as it smashed the road blocks on the other side of the bridge, causing the police to stare open-mouthed at the spectacle. The car ran several streets before it finally came to a stop near an alleyway. With gasps that they were sure that weren't theirs, Sherlock rolled into the driver's seat and pulled John to safety. He really wasn't sure what to say after they had escaped such a stunt in front of half the London and a wide viewership from the steamer which was currently passing under the Tower Bridge.

"J—ohn," he exhaled a shaky breath, his head spinning, his feet wobbly and all the blood in his body deserting his heart and making its way to his fingers, so red that they could burst out any time.

"Christ, _Sherlock_!" John gasped, trembling beside him. They weren't sure what could've been more marvellous than this, "We just—we just did a stunt—a stunt over the _fucking Tower Bridge_ , Sherlock, and I don't even know you. . .  and my car's gone too and I don't even care," he slumped against Sherlock, _"That_ was utter madness."

"I know—" Sherlock gasped, his voice much, _much_ steadier than his heart, "—it felt marvellous, John."

John was still breaking shakily, through his mouth, "I swear—you're mad."

Sherlock looked at him, steadying himself, "Would you rather have me mad, John Watson?" He knew the answer, but he needed to hear it.

The realisation that he wanted John was nothing compared to the high that solving crimes gave him. His whole body was keyed up, pumped, saturated with adrenaline running at a hundred miles per minute, like a motorbike racing against the death angel, its engine revved up, vibrating, ready to burst, ready to go into overdrive, 225 horsepower plus. Nothing could hold a candle to the intensity of its nuclear immolation.

John was made for him.

The realisation was terrifying. It was wonderful.

"Oh God, _yes_!" John gasped, burying his fingers in Sherlock's hair, and closing the distance between them.


	4. Operation Happy Marriage Is Go (From Both Ends)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I was hibernating during the monsoons here. Hope this sort of makes up for it.
> 
> Warning for strong, abusive language and some cross dressing.

Sherlock surged forward, capturing John's lips in a brutal kiss of tongue and teeth. John tensed in surprise at first, but he immediately relaxed against him with a stifled moan. John felt Sherlock’s hand unbuckling John’s belt, his fingers fumbling even though never he had fumbled with his, or anyone's trousers before. But John, ever the lovely little innocent lamb, stopped him. 

"John, please, I _need_ this," Sherlock pleaded softly, and John snarled. 

After kissing for some time, John broke away breathlessly. Before he could properly enjoy the annoyed look of Sherlock's face, Sherlock grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer, assaulting his mouth with his and pinning John's smaller body under him as he melted into the kiss. One of Sherlock's hands was pressed into the small of his back, holding him firmly, and not altogether gently, against him, the other was still hooked around his wrist, refusing to let go even when John clumsily lifted his arm to cup Sherlock's face with both his hands. Sherlock's skin was ice cold, and smooth as wind-levelled rock. 

"I think—perhaps—we should—talk. . . about this," John panted between presses of Sherlock's lips against his own, Sherlock's teeth catching against his jaw and earlobe. 

"Dull," Sherlock replied, and nips at his throat. John gasped, not able to stop the high whine that stole from his throat, "Not there!" 

But Sherlock was going to have none of it. His tongue was inside of John's mouth before he could gather his thoughts into a coherent order. Sherlock's tongue was warm, familiar against his as if this wasn't the third time they were kissing at all, but it was that wet, velvety sensation that suddenly awoke him to what they were doing. 

"Are you mental?" A giggle forced out of John's throat as Sherlock watched, measured his panting breath, "The car doesn't even have a roof!" 

Sherlock laughed at that, and draped John's small jacket over them. It didn't even cover his shoulders. Of course, John wasn't going to make out in a public place. He had standards, after all. 

"Not here," he almost pleaded again, as though he was asking Sherlock not to argue with him or scratch himself in public. Sherlock scoffed and pulled himself off him with a chaste kiss. 

"There's no motel around." 

"Fine, we're left with the street," John sat straight up and tried his best to hide the boner tenting out of his trousers. 

"What do you want to do then?" Sherlock snarled, sounding like he had been just asked to carry the burden of the world on his shoulders and then kicked for accepting the offer, "Wait for a tow truck?" 

John flushed badly at that, "How far is your house?" 

Sherlock smirked triumphantly, "Miles away, I might change my mind." 

John pushed him away angrily, "Fine then, we'll have to get into another car!" 

Sherlock leaned forward to John's surprise and planted a full-mouthed kiss on his lips. 

"I thought you'd never ask." 

The bonnet was gone and the engine sat there, spilling sulphuric acid all over the street. It looked like the car had taken a cigarette break as clouds of smoke enveloped the place, making the streetlight above them seem hazy. The red bricks on the ground were crumbling and chipped away; moss was growing between them. A dog was scavenging for a supper in the dumpster. Rats were making merry near a leaking pipeline. The ladder was still stuck to the car It was possibly the worst place to make out, going by John's usual standards, Sherlock thought. With a flourish of hand, he opened the broken door, which resulted in it coming completely apart from its hinges and narrowly missing his toes as it fell to the street with a heavy clang. 

He lent his arm out to John, offering for him to take it with a sly smirk on his face. 

And John, the little innocent sweet _daring_ wolf in lamb's skin, followed his master home. 

* * *

After a dizzyingly embarrassing and almost crazy round of condom and lube shopping in all the general stores in the area, Sherlock and John broke their way into a car, getting hot and heavy in the backseat because Sherlock was too impatient to look for a motel. Sherlock had taken John's shirt off and was trailing his fingers, tracing the network of veins and the bump of muscles on John's arms, his tongue deep in John's throat and John's legs around his waist. 

"Sherlock— _unngh_ ," John made noises that vibrated against his skin, lighting up minute points of electricity under his skin as Sherlock trailed downwards, beginning his work on a fresh patch of skin that he hadn't marked yet. "Feels so—"

Sherlock was panting, his breath hot and muggy against John's neck. John had already undone three of Sherlock's buttons, the rest came quickly after. John yanked his shirt open and proceeded to return the favour. He let out a surprised yelp as he felt Sherlock's palm tracing the curve of his arse. Sherlock quickly silenced him with a kiss. 

With one hand he cupped John's face the way John had done his in his car. He pressed his other hand against the material of John's trousers, pulled taut by the straining of his rapidly hardening member. John gasped and rolled into Sherlock's palm. Sherlock's face was close to his and burning with a fierce red flush. His eyes were burning too, bright and intensely lustful. He had never seen Sherlock that way, never expected things to move so fast. He was in the most uncomfortable position, pinned under Sherlock's thighs legs straddling his hips, on his back with a taller man on top of him. 

He had never felt better. 

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock!" John moaned into his mouth as Sherlock pressed his lips to his. 

"Stop taking the Lord's name like that," Sherlock snapped, and John's eyes widened.

"Holy Mary, Sherlock," he scoffed, "You're religious?"

"Just kidding," he winked as he palmed John roughly through the trousers. John tipped his head back with a moan.

"You're such a horny little shit." 

"Look who's talking," Sherlock simpered as he unzipped John's jeans and slipped his fingers inside, fondling his crotch. John moaned softly and kissed Sherlock's mouth again and again to stop hearing those embarrassing noises himself. 

"Well you're the one. . . who's taking advantage of the remote spot. . . by the way," John gave his left nipple a naughty pinch, "who's car is this?" 

"Unimportant," he drawled. 

John laughed, pushing back at him and stroking his tongue against Sherlock’s before taking Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a naughty nibble. Sherlock's arms found their way around John's waist and he gasped as Sherlock grabbed two firm handfuls of his arse and pulled his groin sharply forward. Sherlock chuckled, mouthing his way down John’s jaw, licking and nibbling a trail along the smooth curve of his neck. John insinuated a thigh between Sherlock’s legs and slowly, meaningfully, rubbed at him with it.

Sherlock’s eyes glittered a darker, fiercer silver-grey and he pulled back to undress John fully and pin him under himself with his weight. John turned them over and pushed Sherlock back onto the backseat, but kept his hands on Sherlock’s chest to slowly unbutton his dress shirt, chasing each newly exposed bit of skin with an open-mouthed kiss. He nibbled at the tender spot below Sherlock’s navel before pulling the shirt from Sherlock's trousers and beginning to unbuckle Sherlock’s belt.

"I thought you were half-a-virgin or something," John chuckled breathily as Sherlock lay back, propped himself up on his elbows and then tensed as John’s tongue lapped at his abdomen. He was more than half-hard and he shuddered as John palmed him roughly through his trousers. 

"Wait—"

"No," John interrupted. "I am done with waiting for tonight. We are both through with waiting." 

With that, he undid Sherlock's flies, pushing trousers and pants down. Sherlock avoided looking at himself when he knew how embarrassingly hard he was. He knew John was taking in every inch of it, he could almost feel John's eyes on it, caressing it and touching it. 

John threw him a smirk before taking Sherlock's cock in his hand and licking a vulgar stripe from root to tip; and then, without hesitation, John proceeded to swallow him down until the head of Sherlock’s cock hit the back of his throat. 

"Ah, John!" Sherlock lifted a hand, pushed his fingers through John’s hair and groaned. John pulled off with a firm, wet suck and Sherlock tossed his head back and whimpered as he bucked his hips up. John sat up to enjoy the look of annoyance on Sherlock's flushed face. 

"Stop teasing me," Sherlock gasped when John's fingertips brushed against the skin on his inner thigh. Over and over again up to his groin, twisting his pubic hair around the first joint of his index finger. 

"Sorry love," John said, chuckling lightly. He paused, seeming to decide something, and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s frenulum before saying, "I'm a sadist, in a manner of speaking, but then, you're my inspiration, you know." 

Sherlock shook his head resignedly. "I've created a monster." 

John kissed the head softly as Sherlock whimpered, "I am a wolf in sheep's skin, gorgeous." 

"Don't go letting me on endearments, John," Sherlock threaded his fingers with John's, "You've no idea what you're getting yourself into." 

John smiled a sinful smile as he palmed his crotch. Sherlock rolled his hips, tilted his head back and shivered with anticipation at the contact. When the fingers coiled around the shaft, Sherlock bit on his lower lip to muffle a soft moan. 

"Would you like to tell me?" 

"Are you going to get on with it?" 

A moment of hesitation was all Sherlock needed to push John off his lap and onto his back. The darkness made everything markedly more haphazard but it rendered every little detail remarkably sharp in his imagination. The sensation of John's warm skin, his breath, every line of his body, every sound he made was all too overwhelming. John moaned against his lips, rolling his hips against him. Whether it was conscious or unconscious Sherlock wasn't certain, but it sent a shot of pressure straight to his crotch. 

He wrapped his arms around him and kissed him in earnest. He had never met a man who had been just so perfectly made for him, a man for whom he could let everything go, for whom he could even disobey his mother's dying promise to meet a girl and settle down surrounded by a white picket fence and ride cows and toads all evening. Their bodies fit together obscenely well as Sherlock fumbled to let his trousers drop to his knees. The car rocked quietly beneath them and soon the small interiors of the vehicle was filled with the musky smell of their sweat mingling together. 

He felt John arch up against him as his lips reached the skin below his navel. He could feel John's legs wrapping around his waist as Sherlock reached around in the darkness for lube. "Sherlock," John said breathlessly. "Sherlock, this is such a bad idea." 

Sherlock wished that the earth could open its maws and swallow him whole. He couldn't remember where he had put the condoms. He couldn't remember where the lube was. He couldn't even figure out which end was which in the dark. 

"How do you want me?" John asked breathlessly. 

He slid his hand between John's legs and gently took his cock in hand, caressing the underside with his fingertips. John groaned, thrusting his hips upward in a fruitless attempt to create friction against Sherlock's gentle touch. 

"Dying," Sherlock replied, hitching a leg over his shoulder and squirting a generous amount of lube onto his fingers. 

"Oh no, no," Sherlock smirked, as John resisted fruitlessly against Sherlock's attempts to open his legs, "Spread those legs wider for me, Mr. Watson," he said, feeling his way up John's thighs. John moved his legs further apart with difficulty. Sherlock found his entrance with his fingers. He gently slipped one slick finger inside before John had time to tense up. 

"Impatient, are we?" Sherlock simpered when John began to rock on his lone finger, "Maybe I should just finger you until you come." 

John let out a whimper as Sherlock watched his face however well he could with the scanty streetlight falling into the windows. John slammed a palm against a window, his handsome features screwing up in the anticipation of the next finger. 

The secrecy, the hurry, the bursts of adrenaline somehow made the whole thing a thousand times more intense than it would've been with any other man for Sherlock. He knew that he had broken into a car, although what car exactly, he hadn't bothered to deduce. He'd never been so caught up in somebody else. Part of it is just blind lust compounded by the fact that they’d constantly got their ears pricked for approaching footsteps or noises or people in general. Short, intense bursts of adrenaline, John's mingled sounds of moans, breaths and luminous giggles and his physical lust, the _need_ for release were driving Sherlock completely crazy. 

Sherlock added another finger. John made a choking sound beneath him, his nails curling into Sherlock's shoulders. "Ugh! Ah... I'm okay. I'm f-fine, Jesus Christ, I'm fine," he said shakily, as if not believing himself that he was fine. "Do it." 

Sherlock had to bite his lip hard to stop from crying out as John's lower body was pinned perfectly against his, his legs hooking around him with surprising ease given how little he could see. Just, _just_ to see John go completely crazy under him, he added a third finger, rubbing them against his prostate as much as he could. 

"That's enough," John said, his voice frayed. "I n-need you _now_."

Sherlock tore the packet and slipped the condom onto his cock. He pushed himself slowly inside of him. John arched against him with a silent scream. Sherlock's hand grasped the back of John's head, hair getting caught between his fingers and in his nails. The car let out a quiet sound as John rolled his hips into his, wanting more of him. 

"J-John," Sherlock let out a groan, as John closed his eyes. No, Sherlock wanted him to open his eyes, to see that it was him who was going to take him apart, to print and embed the realisation deep within his bones and carve it into his flesh among all the supposed injuries he must have endured throughout his life and collected their marks on his body. 

"Open your eyes and look at me," Sherlock said, suddenly overcome with irrational need. It was he who was going to take him apart. As if it could be mistaken. As if it could be anybody else at that moment. John's eyes were so dark as he opened them, so blown apart with lust that they could take Sherlock apart, could absorb him whole until nothing remained in existence. 

"You're. . . you're inside me. . ." John exhaled, as if he could hardly believe it even having known it since almost half-an-hour. Sherlock's whole body shuddered at the vocalization of it. 

"Yes." 

John moaned into his ear, as he pulled out and took a gasp of air. He felt like hadn't breathed properly all night. He pushed back into him and John released a helpless whimper. Sherlock knew he was fighting back the urge to scream, every few moments he heard him throw his hand to his mouth and make a desperate sound into his palm. Sherlock had to control himself from screaming too, screaming like a mad man. Well, people called Sherlock crazy anyway. 

When Sherlock shifted his hands to John's hips to yank him down into the thrusts, John only rolled his hips upwards with a needy whimper. Just that thought made Sherlock thrust harder, himself panting open-mouthed, beyond words for the moment. Who knows what obscenities or atrocities or endearments could tumble out. 

"Oh shit!" Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled himself out of John, who groaned at the loss. 

"What's happened?" He asked breathlessly, following Sherlock's suit. He was. . . wearing his clothes back. Why? John's heart dropped to a pit as low as Sherlock's voice was now. 

"Wear your clothes back," Sherlock spoke urgently, "We need to get out of here. Your racket woke the whole neighbourhood up."

"Fuck, Sherlock." John swore, "You can't just do _that_ and start to dress up like nothing was happening!" 

Ignoring him, Sherlock struggled to tuck himself into his bespoke trousers, which did nothing to hide the obvious erection. But in the end, he let it slip when he saw that John didn't bother to dress up. As much as he wanted to turn him around and shag him senseless right there, surrender to the passion they were building up, they needed to go. 

"There's police outside."

* * *

Ten minutes later, John was putting his clothes back on while being escorted out of the car by a police officer. Sherlock was behind the wheel and had to convince the cop that he was sober while John had to swear up and down that he was undressing of his own volition before he let them go. Sherlock and John ran away from there before the policeman realised that it wasn't their car. 

Sherlock shifted closer to John as they walked in the dark miserably, each trying to hide their erections from each other where they had both been indulging in gratuitous dirty talk only minutes before. 

"So," John began awkwardly as he linked his hands with Sherlock's, the latter leaning into his touch, "Our first time was a complete disaster." 

Sherlock straightened his curls, "Yeah, it was." 

Suddenly, they ended up laughing hysterically at all that had happened since the evening: Sherlock's disastrous date, brakes failing, the epic stunt over the Tower Bridge and being caught by a policeman during sex, all in all. . . 

"Jesus, Sherlock," John cackled, "What the fuck was all _that_?"

"I don't know, John," Sherlock came closer and wrapped his arms around John's waist, "But I'll remember the day throughout my life." 

"Me too," John spoke, before he was cut off by a gentle kiss, "But let's. . . get a room, you know, before you get all hard enough to fuck through steel, yeah?" 

Sherlock shoved him away, "I might change my mind, John, if you talk to me like that." 

John simply sneered, "No you won't."

Sherlock smiled against his lips, before taking his hand in his, "No, I won't." 

* * *

The next morning, Mycroft Holmes sighed as he leaned an elbow against the counter of Mrs. Hudson's little cafe where he looked vastly out of place in his pristine three-piece Paul Smith, eyeing the little pastries over the newspaper headline saying 'Stunt Over The Tower Bridge' and behind the price labels sadly as he wondered for the umpteenth time what had exactly possessed him to get married and settle down. When he had been a bachelor, he had been happy enough pretending that he was on a rigorous diet while thrusting every poor pastry or candy meeting his line of sight into his mouth.

And now that Andrea fussed over him even with managing her work from her Blackberry with one manicured-fingered hand, instead of his efforts to keep it the fussing over in the opposite direction, he went through only one cake per day.

And he was frustrated. Only five months more, he thought to himself, and then Andrea would be busy with herself, a baby and a Blackberry. Or maybe not, Mycroft thought. If there was one thing he had learnt, it was to never underestimate Andrea's multitasking capabilities.

Caring was definitely not an advantage, he thought.

And now, he was here to sit and shout at Mrs. Hudson, who hadn't submitted to him proper bookkeeping records of the little cafe since the inauguration, despite her extreme talent for recordkeeping during her little fling time in Florida when Sherlock had saved her from Big Frank.

Mycroft Holmes valued organisation over all things in his life, and Mrs. Hudson was straining to the exactly opposite goal. The tired old lady donned a quick apron and then she spotted Mycroft leaning over the counter, eyeing eatables the way a child would eye toys at a shop.

"You will turn around, Mycroft Holmes," she ordered, "and you'll march your impertinent, self-centered arse out of this place or else I'll be calling Andrea right now. . . no wait, I won't do that, she's pregnant, the blessed soul! How's she?"

Mycroft sighed. He could never get the measure of that woman, "I'm not here to _kidnap_ eatables, Mrs. Hudson, as you very inappropriately put it—"

"Why not?" She protested shrilly, "You kidnap everyone, even kidnapped Andrea as a surprise marriage proposal. . ." and then she went quieter, "not that anyone told me about it."

Mycroft gritted his teeth, "I'm going to murder Sherlock for this. . . that's the not the point anyway," he often wondered to himself how _this_ particular woman managed to derail him from his thought processes when a dozen foreign diplomats well-versed in human behaviour and psychology couldn't.

Mrs. Hudson cocked an eyebrow at him, "Yes?"

"You haven't given me a single sheet of your book records ever since I set you up in—"

"Woo hoo, customer, busy-busy!" Mrs. Hudson called out, instantly rushing away from Mycroft towards the imaginary customer who had supposedly rung the bell. Mycroft huffed in annoyance, tapping the end of his umbrella on the floor. 

"Do that!" He called after her retreating figure, "Whenever I have to talk to you about accounts, you have imaginary customers to attend to! I am a middle class British man, not a factory of pound sterling whose loss settings are set to 'never'!" 

"No free cakes for you," she called out, "seeing as you contribute to half the "sales" of the cafe!" 

The landline near the counter rang out. Mycroft tapped the end of his umbrella on the floor impatiently as it rang out clearly in the little overcrowded cafe. He tried to ignore it, but no one bothered to answer it, and seeing as it was technically his cafe after all (and because of his OCD), he picked it up angrily, as if about to explode over the phone, "Hello?!" He barked irritably.

* * *

"Hello?!" Mycroft Holmes' tenor travelled over the phone line and sounded a fake electronic version of his voice in Sebastian Moran's phone set to loudspeaker mode. The man asked next, in a derisive mock of a Subway waiter, "How may I help you?" 

Sebastian cocked an eyebrow at an impeccably dressed Jim, who sipped coffee from a fake RAMC mug John had gifted him on his eighteenth birthday. They were strutting around their ranches, with bodyguards surrounding the place everywhere one could set their eyes upon. Jim's companions, Legless and Baldy trailed behind them like an ever-present shadow. A couple of jockeys were managing Silver Blaze, the fastest horse that Jim had presented to John when he had turned eighteen. Of course, John loved horses more than cars, but then he couldn't just take his horse out on the streets, could he? 

"Ah, Mr. Holmes!" Sebastian cooed happily at his irritated voice, "Business is coming along well, I presume?" 

He could hear a tired sigh over the phone, "Business is coming along very well, first class, A grade, and my holds are bursting with swag! There's riches raining thunderstorms down on me!" He barked out a humourless laugh. 

Sebastian grinned broadly. "Good boy! Some light showers for us too, if you don't mind, then. . . four mil, deli as soon as you can." 

Seb and Jim could practically hear Mycroft frowning over the line, "Deli?" 

"Deliver," Sebastian elaborated, " 'deli' means 'to deliver', TO DELIVER!" 

"Listen, this is a cafe, mister," Mycroft's tone had become patient once more, "Not some mill. Wrong number." 

"Oi idiot, 'mil' means 'million'. Million, get it, you empty skulled organism?" 

Jim snorted into his coffee, laughing at Sebastian absurd choice of insults, and his two companions followed his suit. Sebastian aimed a kick in his direction, at which Jim only turned his attention back to the dramatic pause on Mycroft Holmes' side of the line. 

"Oh!" Mycroft let out the syllable a tad little longer than a normal human being would've let out, "Millions? And that too, four?" And now his voice became extremely irritated as he managed the next set of words as politely as he could, "was it your daddy who left it here for you or was it your momma?" 

On the other side of the line, Jim snorted into his pirated RAMC mug for the second time, giggling shamelessly and supporting himself on the wicket fencing of the ranches in order to prevent himself from collapsing into a heap of skin and bones out of humour. He had never heard anyone talk to Sebastian like that, whether on phone or not. Jim's companions followed suit again, turning their faces away from Sebastian and laughing like mad men. Seb gritted his teeth as he glanced at his stepbrother and his companions openly making fun of the great Sebastian "Romeo" Moran. He cleared his throat in an effort to retain whatever dignity remained of him. 

"Oi, Guy Fawkes' cracker, I'll burn the heart outta you!" Sebastian growled in an attempt to show off his dominance, while Jim's laughter turned into a scowl at Sebastian's free-of-cost use of his dialogues. "Do you know who I am? D'you even know who you're talking to? Romeo Moran, Romeo Moran!" He went to lean against the wicket fence away from a sulking Jim, "Never heard of me, have ya?" 

"Sure," Jim's sulk became a chortle again as he heard Mycroft's tired, polite tenor over the line, "How kind of you to repeat it twice for me, _Romeo Moran speaking, Romeo Moran_ ," he imitated Seb's manner flawlessly as Jim kept fumbling around for more support to keep himself from succumbing to the grassy field in laughter, "So what? Do I sound like it matters to me, useless?" 

"Are you fucking insane?" Seb growled, losing his temper, "I'll come over there and finish you right now. I'm asking for the weekly protection money, you imbecile, protection money!"

"Oh, protection?" Mycroft's voice was thickly laced with amusement, "So you need protection? You "deli" me four "mil" and I'll provide you protection. And if you want four kicks to your shin, call me again and I'll be most happy to oblige," Sebastian, feeling thoroughly insulted, turned to look at Jim dying of laughter as Mycroft kept barking politely into the phone, "If I don't turn you into Juliet from Romeo, then I won't remain Mycroft Holmes anymore!"

The dial tone was the next thing Sebastian heard before he felt completely 'S'ed of his dignity. FYI, S'ed stood for 'stripped' in Seb's dictionary.

"That son of a bitch abused me. Motherfucking wanker, like the younger one!" He swore, wearing his leather jacket back as Jim laughed gleefully behind his back.

* * *

That turned out to be a ghastly mistake for Mycroft. Yes, you read it right. For Mycroft. Because Mycroft was a master when it came to plotting and planning and then acting. He had no power when it came to classic intimidation. He even lost to Sherlock when it came to the game of "American Chopsticks".

Within an hour, as Mycroft gave away his credit card for five cakes and told Mrs. Hudson that he might be forced to deport her to Cuba or Antarctica if he didn't give her copious amounts of cream-loaded cakes he desired, four black limos crowded the narrow Baker Street and jammed the traffic for exactly thirteen minutes and seven seconds. As Mycroft sat in a quiet corner licking his fingers, ignoring Andrea's text informing him about four bulletproof limos with armed men in them headed for Baker Street because he thought that she was probably reminding him of his diet by checking the security footage of Baker Street, relishing the excellent culinary skills of Mrs. Hudson who had gone away to Tesco to purchase some ingredients for the next batch of pies and bakeries, a bunch of armed men arrived and grabbed Mycroft by the lapels of his fine tailored suit jacket while the rest drove the other customers out of there and created a full mess of the little cafe. 

"Get outta here," one of them growled to a particularly rebellious teenage boy who didn't want to be sent away, "Tell your mummy that this cafe's closed from now on!" 

"Wh-what's this—?" Mycroft managed to stammer out, not used to physical force being used on him. Seb's companions, Fatty and Skinny arrived, leering at Mycroft. 

"You'll turn our Romeo boss into Juliet, eh? We'll make _you_ into Juliet," Fatty growled as Skinny restrained a baking apprentice from calling the police. "You get that skirt and garters from the car," he ordered to one of the tough, armed bodyguards, "You go get that bra and the makeup kit. I'll make him into a proper Juliet, son-sorry-daughter of a bitch."

It took approximately seven-and-a-half-minutes to cross-dress the British Government. By the time Sebastian arrived, strutting in his hip shirt, diamond studded belt and leather shoes and jacket, Mycroft was trembling. It was difficult to tell whether out of fury or out of acute fright. 

Sebastian took in the sight of him, black stockings, though, held up by suspenders, and those drew attention to his thighs, his calves, slenderizing them. A purple negligee shimmered over his torso, down to his upper thighs. A bit of pink lace ornamentation at the bottom, which matched the headband Mycroft had been forced to wear, a pink flower. Definitely a touch of mockery there. The boys had done an amazing job with his makeup, though. Red lips, long lashes. Definitely feminine, and definitely not something anyone is used to from Mycroft Holmes. Sebastian let out a faux-admiring gasp, as he took off his special glasses which parted from the centre. 

"Now you look like a proper Juliet: black, pink, red, yellow. . ." he clicked a photo as Mycroft's face burned with embarrassment, "take him away"

"Romeo boss, Romeo boss. . ." Mycroft gasped humanly, never used to such treatment. While yielding and entreating on the surface, Mycroft had already begun to weave plans to destroy Romeo Moran once he made his way safely out of there and into the security of the Diogenes Club, "This-this is all a huge misunderstanding. . . I—I—I'm sorry, Romeo boss, I- thought, I thought someone was messing over the ph-phone. . . I—I wouldn't have sp-spoken to you l-like that, you know." 

"You wouldn't have spoken to me like that?" Sebastian pouted, imitating his rabbit-scared eyes rather well, "Tut-tut. Shame. Then what would you have said?" 

Mycroft's neck turned sideways on its own accord. The Infamous Bob which coincidentally pointed to the lavatory. Sebastian straightened up, eyes widening as he return-bobbed. All his bodyguards straightened up as Seb approached Mycroft, the latter's eyes rabbit scared. 

"What the fuck was _that_ , huh? What do you think I am, huh? I have standards, you useless piece of flesh!" 

"B—boss," Mycroft whimpered, "it's not your p—problem, it's _my_ problem—"

Sebastian gritted his teeth and cast a final look on the cross-dressed British Government before grabbing him by his shoulder, "Five mil till tomorrow, do you geddit, you useless piece of smartphone without signal?" 

"I'm listening boss. . . but. . . five? I mean, you said four on the ph—"

"That _was_ on phone," Fatty growled irritably, "Now boss came up to you in a car, wasted gas and precious time, is your man-whore of a daddy gonna pay for that?" 

"Gas worth one 'mil'," Even Mycroft picked up the use of 'mil' from Seb. "Alright, alright. . . thank h-heavens Romeo boss didn't have anything to eat on the way. . . otherwise it would've been six. . . if you want anything from here," he offered in an attempt to momentarily reprieve himself of the glare of the spotlight, "there are very delicious—"

Seb sighed an all-suffering sigh. "Yeah, yeah, shut up smartarse. It'll be six too. If you don't send me five mil by five pm tomorrow, I swear I'll make your family of three into six." 

"Th—th—three into six?" This time Mycroft felt a real stab of fear. Although he knew what Seb's insinuation, he let it out like other ordinary humans. Seb rolled his eyes. 

"If I chop a family of three into half, they'll be six, fucking idiot! Useless skull without brains!" 

And with that Sebastian "Romeo" Moran strode out of there with his men in style, leaving a Mycroft Holmes in negligee behind, his face burning with humiliation and his mind desiring for revenge. 


	5. Confessions And Retaliations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of angst in this chapters, don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> Any opinions about any sensitive issues, not mine.

Soft sunlight touched Sherlock's closed eyes as filtered morning light kissed their bodies with refracted beams through the glass windows.

Their bodies.

Sherlock opened one eye and it swerved in its socket wildly, taking everything in and finally settling on the blond man clinging to his naked body.

Sherlock had never felt happier. He made sure that John wasn't awake, and snuggled into him, kissing the crown of his head. John under him, John clenching around him. John trusting Sherlock with his body after only an evening. It was a big deal and Sherlock did not want to think of it as simply a one-night stand. Exhausted by multiple orgasms, they had fallen into sleep together, curling around themselves to be as much in contact as possible as they slept.

"Room service!" came the harshest voice possible from outside their door, and Sherlock felt John stir against him. He immediately closed his eyes and relaxed himself, making his breathing even. He wanted to see John's reaction. He wanted to know what John felt about him. He did not want to think further of his newborn feelings towards John Watson until he was absolutely certain that John returned them to the same degree.

He felt John raise his tousled head from its repose between the crook of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. Sherlock waited with bated breath for John's reaction. He tried not to give away any indication that he was awake yet. He wished desperately that John did not get up. The texture of his skin, the warmth of it against his was like balm applied to bruise, but he soon felt cold air rushing into the space where his and John's skin has been plastered together by a sticky combination of sweat and their ejaculate.

"Sherlock?" he called softly in a sleep-and-sex roughened voice. Sherlock stayed in his place, waiting. He felt John's arms encircle his waist and John letting himself down on him carefully, as if not to awake Sherlock, burying his face in Sherlock's neck. Sherlock felt blood rising in him at that simple act, his heart rate spiking like it never had been. He felt John shift the covers and entwine their legs together, "Sherlock," he called this time, his voice softer. Sherlock wanted to wake up. John's voice was calling to him, he couldn't refuse.

"You still asleep?"

"No," Sherlock opened his eyes to see John. John's tender face looked down at him, but as he came into recognition, his features crinkled into the most wonderful, warm smile Sherlock had seen in years. His heart gave an odd flutter at that, "Good morning."

"Very good morning," John agreed, "just wanted to tell you. . . last night was amazing."

"Hmm," Sherlock let out a pleased, self-satisfied sound. It certainly had been. He hadn't been intimate with a man since a long time and John wasn't any man, "want to go again?"

"Oh God, yes!" John all but breathed out as he removed the sheet and closed all distance between them.

 

* * *

 

John collapsed on top of Sherlock as they spent themselves together with Sherlock inside him.

"Oh, God," John's eyes were wide, still wide. Sherlock felt a weird sort of satisfaction to be the one to be able to make John feel like that.

"I know," Sherlock spoke breathlessly, his composure a far reality for him at that point, "I was there."

"Sherlock," was all John could utter.

"Let me stay inside you," Sherlock insisted softly, nuzzling against John's temple, the motion small, "for now."

"Sherlock," John said with some more force, and Sherlock realised that John was not really revelling in the post-coital daze.

"Just a few minutes more," Sherlock begged. He was only getting used to the feeling of being inside John. He didn't want to pull out of him just yet, "I'll hear you then."

John looked at him and lowered his gaze to his lips. Before Sherlock could even close his eyes, John's lips were on his and all he could think of was the night they had spent together. Sherlock and John had boarded a motel whose owner owed Sherlock his business for having saved him from disgrace following a secret prostitution business. John had joked that it was the perfect place for them to hook up.

Now, sandwiched between a mattress that made the perfect squeaky sounds beneath him and a John Watson who made equally enchanting noises, Sherlock couldn't agree more.

 

* * *

 

"Sherlock," John finally came out from shower, his dishevelled hair coppery-gold and skin flushed like he had just had sex in the shower. Sherlock had wanted to go one more round but John had firmly said 'no', much to Sherlock's dismay, "we need to talk."

John had no idea how perfect he looked like that, only the towel around his hips covering up his modesty, the towel that Sherlock could remove with just a tug.

"About?"

"About?!" John gave a disbelieving snort, "Of course, about this," he pointed to the ruined sheets, "About. . ." at this point he avoided Sherlock's eyes, looking ridiculously shy for the man Sherlock knew as John Watson, "about. . . us."

Sherlock looked blankly at him. He had spent so much time dwelling about the past that he had not even considered about what more he would like to have with John. Sex, of course, but beyond that? Only Donovan and Anderson and Lestrade knew that he was gay, and Sherlock still thought it a wonder that Lestrade had managed to keep it a secret from Mycroft. Mycroft, of all people, thought that Sherlock was straight and, like the dutiful son he was, was still wholeheartedly committed to the task of finding for Sherlock a perfectly decent cow for a partner, just like their Mummy's wishes.

He was yet to come out to all the other people who knew him: Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper who had a crazy crush on him (which was in fact an advantage, so Sherlock never told her and rid her of her unrequited feelings) and the rest of his family, which now consisted of Mycroft and Andrea.

Then he remembered his mother's dying wish. One night of marathon sex had left him quite emotionally vulnerable, Sherlock thought. He had not even come out to her and she had passed away before that. Sherlock hadn't thought that it would make that much of a difference when she was still there. Man or woman, he was used to be irritating and unnerving to people. No one could tolerate him.

She had specifically stated that she wanted him to marry a girl. Only a girl. Marry a girl—call her Mary or Sarah or Jeanette—build a fence between your home and the others, make love to her twice, unprotected. Make one girl and one boy and remain celibate for the rest of your sedentary life.

The Holmeses were a reserved bunch of people. She condemned homosexuality. Probably even Mycroft did so. She would hate him. She was gone. She didn't matter no more.

She wanted him to meet a girl.

". . . Sherlock?" John's worried voice wafted in and Sherlock zoned in, blinking furiously to clear his thoughts. John looked worried, to the point of even second guessing himself for having asked Sherlock that. That look itself on John's face was intolerable. He never wanted John to look that way, so unsure of himself.

"Yes, I'm—I'm still here," Sherlock almost snapped. John frowned, his eyes narrowed sharply.

"So?" John pressed on when Sherlock needed time to think. He had slept with men, been with women, but never been with a man. He thought whether he should tell John that.

"John, I. . . I. . . " he just trailed off, trying to put his words in a way that didn't make him sound like a five-year old.

"Oh," John let out a vulnerable noise that sounded nothing like laughter as he clearly misunderstood the signals Sherlock was sending, "I thought, well—I should've known—"

"No," Sherlock denied it, "I mean—" he avoided his eyes, "I've not come out yet. To. . . people."

John stared at him with incredulity, "You can't be more than twenty eight."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Please! People spend their whole lives being married and don't realise that they're gay."

"Sherlock," John began warningly, "this is not funny."

Sherlock looked down, "I'm not saying that it is."

John stared at him desperately, "Fine, if you can't stand me, stop skirting around this with excuses and tell me that this is over. I'll be alright with it."

"It never began," Sherlock pointed out unthinkingly, and John let out a humourless chuckle.

"Right, I should've known," he turned his back to Sherlock and grabbed his shirt angrily, "The one guy I think wasn't going to be a bastard turned out to be like all of them."

Sherlock felt something like intermixed terror and dread deep in his gut, "John, I didn't—"

"Get out," John seethed through clenched teeth, "I never want to see your face again."

"But—"

"Leave!" he roared, and then tried to gulp down his anger, "leave and never come back."

"But you haven't heard my answer yet—"

"I don't want to!" Sherlock backed away at that, "Don't you see it? You're a. . . you're an utter prick. You're not the sort of guy I'd want to be with—" John looked away, and Sherlock felt a thousand knives running through him to see John hurt in guise of that anger, "I can't believe I didn't see that coming," he went and threw open the door, "I can't stand the sight of you. Leave, or I will do that."

Sherlock cast an eye down him, "You're not in—"

John took one step towards him, sending Sherlock almost backwards against the door. With quick measured breaths, he spoke, "I. Never. Want. To. See. You. Again. Understood?"

Sherlock gulped down the sinking feel that this might be the last he would ever get to see of John Watson. He wanted to force himself on John, but he knew that it would just aggravate him more and he'd achieve nothing by that. He'd already seen what an angry John Watson could do, going by the way he broke the steering wheel out of anger. With a last look at an entirely ravished John with his blond hair sticking up at angles and his shirt damp from the shower he'd taken, he turned away and walked out of John's life.

Presumably forever.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft broke down in his chair in the Stranger Room of the Diogenes Club once he assured himself that he was alone and quite safe from all sorts of thugs and dons.

He had spent the entire car ride trying to keep up his composure in front of his chauffeur who had kept throwing him suspicious glances through the dashboard mirror. The cheap Revlon lipstick still haunted his abused lips, the allergy to the cosmetics too vicious. He knew that he was unknown to most people, even people of his own Home Office who only knew him as 'the man with the pretty Blackberry woman and the umbrella', but how this Romeo Moran had got hold of his identity was truly a mystery. Who was behind him? Because Romeo Moran didn't seem to be the sort of guy who was clever enough to get hold of him of all people. He seemed like a bully. Only a thug.

No, Mycroft reasoned as he got over most of his humiliation, there had to be some behind him, someone he collaborated with.

Mycroft booted his laptop. It was better to begin this in an organised manner. But what he obtained about Romeo Moran only served to make him more scared about Sherlock and Andrea. Fine, Andrea was pregnant and she was at home, but Sherlock roamed around in London like a free spirit. He knew that Sherlock was intelligent, but he was no ninja. He could not run away before the bullet struck him. He was lousy at protecting himself. He would actually make sure that the bullet hit him and only him.

 _Family of three into six_ echoed forebodingly in his mind like a sickening iteration.

Romeo Moran appeared in the headlines at least once a week with a case of murder for extortion money, in daylight and public. There were several court cases running on him, but somehow Moran always escaped the clutches of law. The record of his crimes against humanity was astonishing, to say the least. Kidnapping, ransom, loot, pilfering were his hobbies. Almost like a pirate, albeit without ship and sea.

Mycroft almost gulped when he saw that Sherlock had taken a case back in the past where Moran had been involved. He still remembered Sherlock's ranting at home when he had found out that the witness had lied in court, saying how damaging it was to his reputation. Their paths had intersected once before but Sherlock had narrowly escaped by a tangent.

Would he, the next time?

He wanted to know. Who was behind Sebastian Moran?

Within the next hour, Mycroft phoned various people, emailed the rest and buried himself in the testimonies of people who had been affected by Sebastian Moran in the past.

The man, with all his extortion, did not have a single property to his name. Mycroft was even more sure that there was someone behind Sebastian Moran, someone who ran the entire network with Moran as his face. He remembered having heard laughs when Sebastian had first called him.

Mycroft checked again. There was not a single property builder, restaurant manager or business who did not pay Moran protection money. There had to be a bigger force behind him. And that person had to be extremely wealthy and well-connected, even if he had to build his empire solely on the weekly revenue extorted. He might not be present, he might be off the grid if Moran was the face. And yet, Moran somehow escaped the law easily.

There was one man who was yet to be under the influence of Moran, Mycroft joined the dots and had the lines intersect at one name: John. No last surname available. Small business, yes, but if 'Mrs. Hudson's Snax n' Sarnies' could not avoid the spotlight, there was no way in which 'John Textiles' couldn't.

But one thing he couldn't understand. When they had called up Mrs. Hudson, how had they known that it was a Holmes speaking? Instead of Mycroft, it could've been some helper boy, but they never asked the phone to be given to Mrs. Hudson, since the cafe was in her name.

Mycroft sighed. He could now see the one mistake he had made. _He_ was the one who had rented the place and then given it to Mrs. Hudson. Yes, his bank account was virtually untraceable but the registry was in the name of Mr. Mycroft Holmes. How could he have overlooked that at that time? He could only blame it on the chatter that the old woman had bestowed upon him during their meeting with the lawyer.

Mycroft tried to think who Sebastian "Romeo" Moran could be. Was it one of those thugs from one of those criminal families he had infiltrated into in the guise of a marriage proposal? They could be. But the entire thing was about extortion. It wasn't being done out of spite.

He was startled by a tap on the shoulder. Mycroft almost jumped off his chair with a squeal of fright but was only accosted by the butler, "Sir, the Detective Inspector is waiting to speak with you."

Mycroft had to blink to come back to reality. Why was Lestrade here? "Yes, of course. Show him in."

The butler gave a smart nod and let Greg in, "Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

"Yes," Mycroft straightened up in his chair, "Good day, Detective Inspector. What brings you here?"

"I could blame it on the excellent wine. . . But just the fact that. . ." he looked amused, "you're scared like a doll, almost as if Moran himself had threatened you."

Mycroft stiffened. Although he knew that Lestrade didn't know and his guess was only random, he still couldn't help but feel a sense of presentiment. If that was the sort of fear Moran inspired in people, he'd better be careful. Sherlock better be careful because Mycroft was nothing if not careful.

He tried not to think that Sherlock wasn't the one who had been cross-dressed in Mrs. Hudson's 'Snax and Sarnies' which not only had appalling spelling but also had committed the ultimate sin of being written in Comic Sans font. He shook himself.

"Spot on, I'd say," he managed effortlessly.

Lestrade's eyes widened, ". . . Say that again."

"You heard me perfectly, Detective Inspector," Mycroft looked away, "I'm not repeating myself."

"Somebody threatened _you_? I thought you threatened people."

"Why have you come here?" Mycroft propped his forehead onto his fingers. Seemed like Sherlock was also rubbing off on the good detective.

"Oh yeah," he scratched the back of his neck, "do you know that your brother is gay?"

"What?!" Mycroft spluttered. That couldn't possibly be. Sherlock brought girls home all the time when he was a teenager, even though most of them left the morning after with screams and a colourful range of hysterics.

He gave a short laugh, "You're wrong, Lestrade. My brother is not gay."

"He is, I know for a fact that he is. So stop looking for girls for him and let him choose when he wants to settle down with someone. Some decent guy."

Mycroft heaved a defeated exhale, "Do you think you'll get out of this infiltrating business and out of looking for a girl for him by saying this?"

"Why're you putting pressure on him to get married?" Lestrade demanded, "He isn't a kid. . . okay, maybe he is, but he gets to choose when he wants to settle down, girl or not. I'd have said this regardless of Sherlock being straight or gay."

"I will not have him near my baby when he comes. I will not let him influence my child's character in anyway. He is hardly a good role model."

Lestrade went quiet at that, "That's a pretty bitchy thing to say. Sherlock is your own brother."

"I'm just stating the truth," Mycroft pointed out, "It will be best for him and for my child. I remember my brother's childhood. I will not have my boy secluded and unhappy like he was. Sherlock would understand that. It's logical."

Lestrade shook his head, "You think it's Sherlock's fault, that he was alone, when he was a kid?"

"Of course. Look at all others, why we have turned out to be normal?"

"I think sitting holed up in the Diogenes can be hardly classified as normal."

"Being disdainful of other people and being excluded by other people are two things apart. I belong to the former, Sherlock to the latter. He opens up to people if they include him. He's only disdainful of those who don't approve of him. Plus I don't think he'll want to be around."

Lestrade gave a short laugh, "Oh come on, you don't know that."

"He hates children. Always. Whenever we were called for Christmas by our parents, he was the one to show pictures of beheadings to our gardener's five year old son. Who knows what he'll do with _my_ son, especially when he hates me so much. How would he love my son if he turns out like me?"

"Basically, you want Sherlock to get married because he hates you and because you don't want him around childbirth?"

"As a brother, I'd want him around my boy," Mycroft cleared, his face still stony, "not as a family member."

"And what about what he wants," Lestrade started weakly but Mycroft cut across him.

"He is _my_ brother, Lestrade, not yours."

Lestrade shrugged, "He's like my son," he let out incoherently, too incoherent for Mycroft to process, "Anyway," he continued, "about this Brother Romeo business, how could he threaten _you_?"

"I will tell you a little more, if only you promise to help me establish his identity."

Lestrade snorted, "What? About Moran? He lounges in one of those strip clubs in Soho. His haunts are very well known. It's reaching him that's difficult. it's built right in the middle of a public place so it attracts a lot of attention. He's got his armed bodyguards all around and that place is not very easily penetrable. You know how it is. His hangouts are unpredictable. He's never really seen in one place at some time of day so there's no point issuing a warrant. Our best bet is the times he is in public doing drawings of things, but usually his men block the road and make it inaccessible."

"What about those who're behind him?" Mycroft steepled his fingers beneath his chin, "I'm sure he's the muscle power. Who's the brain behind him?"

Lestrade blinked bemusedly, "We've got nothing of that sort. Although, I do remember Sherlock saying something like that when he took Moran's case. We had got the wrong person; he led us back on track but the witness gave a different statement so the case was gone, if you remember."

Mycroft nodded, "I shall need to speak to Sherlock then. Thank you Detective Inspector, you may go now. You'll call only when you're being summoned."

"Mycroft Holmes," Lestrade called out, and Mycroft looked up at him, "If you truly want Sherlock to be happy, let him take the decision all by himself. You might not believe he's gay, but I've seen the way he looks at men on that sodding dating site."

Mycroft frowned, "Men?!" He couldn't. Sherlock wasn't gay. Sherlock couldn't be gay. He was a Holmes. Holmeses were much above this drama of a man being attracted to a man. What would Mummy say? What would Daddy say? What would Aunt Becky say?

"Haven't you seen it? His profile says that he's interested in men. He went out on a date yesterday with a guy, and ended up with some other guy during the evening and, as I suspect, must be sucking his face now."

Mycroft tried to keep his face straight. Sherlock kissing another _man_? How could he? The idea itself was repulsive. Man and man were not to be together, because that wasn't nature. Nature had told man and woman to be together. How could Sherlock?

And why did he have to hear it from Lestrade, a complete outsider with lesser brains than him and who didn't share even a strand of their DNA? And after so many years since Sherlock must have first come to know? That's what angered him the most.

Mycroft must have been blank for a sufficiently long time because Lestrade gave a short dubious laugh, "Never wondered why he didn't return home yesterday, did you?" Never wondered about that stunt atop Tower Bridge, did ya?"

With that, Lestrade got up and left, leaving Mycroft holding on to the shreds of rational thinking. Why did the bomb have to drop all on one day?

Why?


	6. The Guest Appearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, When I first began this, I thought it would be 10 chaps max. Now, it might cross even 20. :)

However much Mycroft Holmes could be shocked, there wasn't an entity in the world which could stop him from working. Especially when the safety of his younger brother, his wife and his unborn child were compromised.

But the knowledge—the extreme, damning knowledge—that Sherlock liked men, Mycroft thought, and consciously avoided the monosyllabic word 'gay', was too much for him. He looked across at the clock. It was twelve o'clock. He decided to verify what Lestrade had said.

He'd seen the Tower Bridge stunt article in the tabloids and in Daily Mail, but never being the one to concern himself with trivia, he hadn't read it. After all, it could've just been some other Fear Factor thing. But as he squinted onto the picture, against the lights of the Tower Bridge and those of the St. Katherine's Pier, Sherlock's distinctive keen face and the curly mop of hair atop his head was clear in the lanky figure perched on the. . . was that a ladder atop the convertible car?

And there was another guy on the bonnet, smallish so Mycroft couldn't really make him out. And they were passing under a steamer. Romeo Moran would've given away anything to paint that picture, he thought despite himself.

Mycroft sank his head into his palms. He didn't what to feel: whether to be tired of Sherlock's atrocities or whether to work against Moran and make him take back every single thing he said.

He was going to have a long talk with Sherlock about this. But before that. . .

He dialled Andrea's number. She must be there in his office at this time. He tried to keep her as sedentary as possible, and he had thought that he would do this without her assistance, but fate was going to have it otherwise. At any rate, he never really did anything without her assistance.

He sent a car for her and progressed to the next step of the operation, all the while activating all CCTV channels to notify him whenever they got a view of Sherlock on the streets, especially around Southwark and Waterloo, since that's where Sherlock would have probably ended near after the incident.

Mycroft soon discovered the remains of the poor infamous convertible that had caused the pandemonium the previous evening, but not Sherlock. Mycroft didn't expect to find him anyway. It was well into midday, and if Sherlock had done what Mycroft thought he had done (and _how_ could he do it with a man? The thought itself was repulsive to him, despite being widely shipped with Greg Lestrade in the fandom, and _that_ thought too was repulsive and unthinkable to him because he was already married to Andrea), he should've been out by ten at the most.

It seemed like he had to find about whether Romeo Moran had a sister. Operation Cobra should. . . no, Operation Cobra wasn't going to work here. Moran was already above the clutches of law, as proved numerous times. His crimes heinous or not, the proof of those cast iron or not, he would never go to prison, Mycroft had to work with that assumption. The only thing that remained was execution. Snipers. Doing it dirty and against the law. Mycroft never liked playing it dirty, but it was proving to be necessary.

He dialled Sherlock, but no response. He scourged him around in all the CCTV feeds, but he was nowhere. Mycroft began to feel a sort of terror now, the sort of terror he had felt in the cafe. Where was Sherlock? Surely they wouldn't kidnap him already? After all, it was ridiculously easy to kidnap Sherlock, seeing as he usually chose to play along with the kidnapper rather than struggle against them.

Five million, Mycroft thought, his stomach sinking. He knew that, with his intellect, he could've earned more than what he earned as the British Government and crawled his way out of the middle-class status he held in the Home Office, but he was incurably lazy and unambitious. How was he going to make his way out of this mess? Five million pound sterling was a big amount, and of course, he wasn't going to steal from the British Treasury. For him, the nation came first, and then his family.

He could use fake currency, of course, but it had been long since Britain had stopped paying back its overdue loans to the World Bank in fake pounds. All those printing machines were shut down after they had begun to realise that Dollar and Euro might overwhelm them in a month. They couldn't have a repeat of Germany in the 1930s, could they?

He had to go pay Romeo Moran a visit. As much as he hated legwork, he wasn't going to drag Sherlock into this. The farther he stayed away, the better.

He straightened his tie and got right back to work. The Intelligence was also woefully vague about Moran. None of their quartermasters had ever wondered why Moran did not have a single property to his name or what he did with the money he extorted.

He got his plan. He was going to send a mole into Moran's security, have him report everything to him and then go into the battlefield. Fortunately, not all agents of the BSS could be bought.

And if even that failed, he could always switch to his backup plan. Stuff the notes with transmitters and see where the money goes to. That way, he could come to know about who is behind Moran.

And if even that failed, he could always go to his second backup plan. What it was, he still had to figure that out.

A curt nod on the door. Mycroft straightened his tie out of habit and declared, "Come in."

The butler showed Andrea in. Her face had got fuller since Mycroft had forcibly put her on an all-organic-herbal-tea-no-caffeine diet. It made her look ever so beautiful. She had resorted to two-inch heels after coming to know about her conception.

"Sit down," Mycroft continued more gently, "Apologies for calling you in your current state," he tried not to eye her belly which would soon swell. She cut across him, unflappable as ever.

"I'm not on leave yet, sir," her deep voice resonated through the room. Mycroft liked it very much, how it was unlike many other women, whose voices were sharp and irritating as whips. She always called him 'sir' in public places. They had kept their marriage a secret, except from Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, and very recently, DI Lestrade, whose secretive nature could be trusted.

"In another couple of months you will be, so I want to complete whatever work is remaining. Have you already scheduled my activity for this evening?"

"Yes sir, you have a meeting with—"

"Cancel it all," Mycroft said politely, "We have more important work to do."

She remained deadpanned as ever, but her voice was a little bit incredulous, "Sorry sir? _More_ _important work_?"

"Lots of work to do."

* * *

 

It was twelve noon by the time John returned to the mansion heartbroken and rejected by the one and only perfect mate he had found.

His heart had bled when he had seen the desperation on Sherlock's face, the pain in his voice as he kept saying his name over and over again during their final stand. Sherlock may have been a prick but he was everything that John had ever wanted, minus the detective part. Of course he couldn't date a detective of all people. What would Jim say? He would never approve of John sleeping with a detective, and John was nothing if not careful to not do the thing which annoyed Jim in the slightest. He loved his brothers, even though he really didn't approve of what they did. When all was said and done, he would always have his brothers, at his side. Jim had even made sure that Sebastian had gone to army with John. True, John had felt pampered with Sebastian hovering around him like a hound and scaring off all the guys that John shagged with, but it was just brotherly love.

Even though it could sometimes be too much. He couldn't blame Jim. Jim had never really loved anyone, except for his brother, so John had to be at the centre of everyone's attention.

He tried not to think of Sherlock. No matter how perfect Sherlock had been last night (oh God, the last night. John had never known that he could be so horny), no matter how good he had felt in John's arms, no matter how perfect he was for John, John knew that he wouldn't be happy with Sherlock, not with such a jerk. It would come tumbling down one day, and it would be many times as painful as the morning had been.

He had done the right thing. He hated doing the right things.

"Hey brother," he said mechanically upon spotting Jim. Jim smiled the sort of smile only John was allowed to see and John went over to him.

"Where were you last night?" Jim asked, just a touch of hysteria in his voice. He was forever scared that John had been be kidnapped by somebody and held at gunpoint. John wanted to tell him that there was a reason why he had been made 'Captain' in the army while Sebastian had only managed the rank of a 'Colonel'.

"With a guy. Arse," he swore miserably.

"Who was he?" Jim asked quietly.

"Like I said, arse." Jim gave a small chuckle at that.

"Did he hurt you?"

John narrowed his eyes, "Are you really going to ask me about how we fucked?"

"No, you seem. . . distracted," he observed. Usually, Jim was maniacal with his workers. But not with John.

"I told him to buzz off."

"That's what I'd expect of you, Captain Watson," Jim said with a smirk.

"Threw him out of the motel room," John began a little proudly.

"Wait, you stayed in a motel?!" Jim all but squeaked, "So, on top of a bloody stunt over the Tower Bridge, you stayed in a motel?!"

John heaved a sigh, "So. . . you read about that."

"Read?!" Jim gave an incredulous laugh, "What the fuck were you thinking, John?! Were you out of your friggin' mind, _let's go play stunty-stunty over the Tower_ _Bridge while a steamer passes underneath it_. What if. . . something had happened to you?" He shut his eyes close, the thought of John's death far too painful for him.

"I wouldn't have," John said quietly. He wanted to add that Sherlock wouldn't have let him die, but he chose not to say that.

"Oh, you already knew that, didn't you?" Jim looked positively livid as he barked at John, "Have you no consideration of what I and your brother Romeo would go through if something happens to you? That's what my pop said, _take care of li'l Johnny._ I've done that all these years, tried to keep you safe from everything, even sent Romeo after you to the army when you wanted to go, so that you didn't go and blow yourself up! How dare you put all of that on a plate and pull that shit behind my back?"

John shrank into himself. He had seen Jim angry, terrifyingly angry, and usually people died when Jim was angry, but never with John.

"You've—you've never shouted at me," John said, not meeting his eyes. Jim softened immediately, but didn't say anything. When the silence became too much for John, he spoke, "I'm sorry, brother. I'm not saying that I don't value your. . . whatever you do for me, but. . . I never really asked you to send Romeo after me. I'm twenty eight. I'm able to take care of myself."

Jim scoffed, "And what? Have you shot in foreign sand like there? Have your heart broken like today?"

John looked away, "We just hooked up."

"Don't expect me to believe that. If you were only hooking up, you would've spent the night in one of the guest houses around the city like you usually do. You're not that desperate to spend the night in a motel. This guy was something special."

"If you really think I'm heartbroken, I'd expect some sympathy then maybe," John said wryly, trying to mask the hurt.

"I've never had my heart "broken", and don't you ever do such things again," Jim rolled his eyes, and John gave a hollow laugh.

"And I hope you don't. It sucks."

Jim narrowed his eyes, "Does it?"

"Like nine kinds of Hell," John said with a laugh.

"Hmm, I'll be careful then," he patted John's left knee, "as for sympathy, I think I can surprise you as to how _sympathetic_ I can be."

"Surprise me then."

Jim smirked, "How about a ten days-eleven nights trip to South Africa? I hear it's wonderful at this time of year, especially Sun City. The beaches, the sun."

John's jaw dropped, "South Africa? You mean. . . Cape Town and all?"

"If you want to. I think a change of scenery would do you and Romeo good."

John deflated. He should've expected that. He should've expected that. Jim noticed that and smiled, "Oh come on! He's not going to interfere. He's going to do whatever. . . nonsense art he does with Fatty and Skinny and provide cover for you. You can decide among your friends when you want to go. I'll get the jets arranged."

John frowned, "Their names are Desmond and Harry, not Fatty and Skinny."

Jim patted his cheek and winked, "I know, but Fatty and Skinny sound funnier than Desmond."

"One minute, is this some kind of ploy to get me out of country before you strike the deal of the century?"

"And you hit the nail right on the head," Jim said drily, "sort of, yeah. But don't worry. I had been planning this since a long time, since the first time I saw you look so peaky."

John nodded shyly, "Thanks, I s'pose," he tried not to think of Sherlock, "I might need this after all."

Jim attempted a placating smile, failed horribly and began to leave the room without any expression. John turned to him, "Jim!"

Jim looked at him questioningly, "Yeah?"

John had thought long and hard about what he wanted to say to Jim. That he was done with dating. That he couldn't do it anymore. Jim knew better. He'd find him a guy he'll eventually like. Jim had always taken care of him. He'd do this as efficiently as he always did things, "Are you still looking for guys for me?"

He had wanted his voice to sound comical, because it was comical, finding men for John who could always lure even the most difficult ones into his bed—for example—a certain Sherlock Holmes. But he was sick and tired to finding the wrong guys. Dating wasn't his division, and he really wanted to settle down with someone, do anything that wasn't sex. Sherlock had given him a dose of that yesterday, that evening which had built up towards the inevitable. . .

Jim nodded blandly.

"Well. . . just so you know, I'm alright with it," John said, with a ring of conviction in his tone.

"Never said you weren't."

John rolled his eyes, "Just get out, would you?"

Jim gave his characteristic high-pitched laughter. Even though the sound was unsettling, it always comforted John.

* * *

Jim waited until he was absolutely sure that John was out of earshot that he called Sebastian to the living room.

"What about your painter guy? When's he coming?"

"One of these days, surely," Sebastian chuckled, "Should've seen his face when I made him into Juliet. Motherfucking prick."

"Oi! Watch it," Jim warned him, "that motherfucking prick is going to be my motherfucking brother-in-law. How far's the plan coming along?"

"Haven't scared that Mycroft guy properly enough. Once I get to the main party, maybe he'll respond more to our liking. As for you Jim, you need to cleanse your place of all the beheadings. We need to make him think that you're an angel."

Jim gave a sarcastic laugh, "That I surely am! But when _are_ you getting to the main party?"

"Tonight, probably," Sebastian turned up the collars of Sherlock's Belstaff, the one he had stolen a few weeks ago, "A guest appearance, sort of thing."

Jim rolled his eyes, " _Guest appearance_?! What is this, a movie or something?"

"You'd be happy if it was a movie," Sebastian pointed out drily, and Jim blushed like a girl, scratching the back of his head and trying to hide his face

"Yeah," he said shyly, "I would be," and then he returned to normal, "But don't fuck up the main party too much, alright? We need to keep him pretty for Johnny. I like the sound of this guy, decent and all. . . but something's odd, y'know?"

"What?"

"I checked for this Mycroft guy everywhere. Didn't get anything except for that Snax cafe thing. Almost like he's invisible. Is he. . . unemployed?"

"He was wearing a lovely Paul Smith, from that handpicked collection that came out last month. The main party wears Saville Row suits. They've got to have some sort income. This Mycroft guy is way too decent to run a black business on the side. I reckon they're clean."

"What does the main party do?"

"Here's the funny part. He's a detective."

"What?!" Jim spluttered, "I can't give my brother away to a detective!"

"Our brother," Sebastian reminded him.

"Fine, _our_ brother," Jim huffed, "He'll be like a mole. What if someone targets John because of this main party? I keep forgetting his name—"

"Name isn't important. I'll get the guy, you do your preparations. And this main party, he's got sort of police protection around him. He's got friends in Scotland Yard. There literally can't be a better guy for Johnny. He'll keep him safe."

"He needs to love Johnny first."

"Oh come on, who doesn't love Johnny?" Sebastian dared, "There's not a person on the earth who cannot love Johnny."

"He's had more number of breakups than the number of times I've changed my security people," Jim pointed out.

"That's because they weren't meant to be for Johnny. This one's meant to be," Sebastian rubbed his hands together, "I can feel it."

Jim looked at him under narrowed eyes, "You can't feel it from a bloody painting."

"I can," Sebastian challenged, "I'm an artist."

"Oh, spare me."

From Heaven, and from Hell, God and Satan laughed alike. The Holmeses and the Moriartys had no idea what they were getting involved with.

Or _who_ they were getting involved with.

* * *

Sherlock closed his eyes against his eyelids, breathing in deeply into his jacket. it had been two days and he had not declared himself bored of the monotony of the world. He hadn't taken on in any cases, not cared to do that. John's and his mingled scents still haunted his jacket, and that was enough for him. It was his oxygen, it was like intoxicating wine for him. John's grip on his shoulders, John's sweaty arms around his neck, the feeling of his compact body under him, the noises he made. There was nothing he wouldn't give away to spend another night with John, to spend an eternity with him in that car with the brakes failed and it soaring over the Tower Bridge. It had been like a dream, and the following events, more so.

But John had said that he never wanted to see him again. Stupid Sherlock. He couldn't believe that he had singlehandedly blown his chance with the one person he felt was rapidly becoming the breath of his life. All, over the evening. But that was plausible, he thought. That evening that been like nothing had ever been for Sherlock. He had never set much store by soulmates, but Sherlock had known. He had found his.

Because when he closed his eyes, he saw John. When he opened his eyes, he saw John. Since the two days he had met him. How was he supposed to concentrate on his Work if he was going to be like that?

Like what? Sherlock realised, with dread forming a knot in his gut.

He was lovesick.

He hated it.

Just once, if only once he could meet John, again.

Without John looking hurt.

Without John kicking his arse out.

Why did he never say the right things? All those girls always went away sobbing because he never said the right thing to them. And now John was gone too.

He'd gladly go on a hundred dates with Victor Trevor if it only meant that John would rescue him, again and again. And they would live through that, again and again.

Sherlock shook himself as he saw Andrea approaching him. That woman was going to be the death of him, creeping up almost anywhere without him knowing. He didn't know what Mycroft saw in her, or hell, any woman. Yes, she was beautiful and was most indispensible to his work. Was that all? Nothing more they could connect over?

Sherlock felt disgusted with himself. If Mycroft even heard him thinking such thoughts, he would gladly strip him of his dignity and his trust fund.

Mycroft hadn't come home since the last two days. He had spent his time holed up in his office, working there for all sorts of ungodly hours. Sherlock wondered whether they were going into World War III or preparing for an alien attack. Knowing Mycroft, each was equally likely.

"Where's Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, faking a yawn to make it look more believable than the lovestruck face he probably had a few moments ago.

"Office," she replied. "He'll return today, probably to talk about the man you're crying over."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "S'cuse me?"

"If you must now, Mr. Holmes, all the CCTV feeds that require Mycroft's attention go through me first. I handpick them for him, according to priority. Although I concealed the footage where you were making out with a blond young man after that stunt incident, he seems to have got wind that you aren't as straight with him as he would want you to be, excuse the pun, and so, he'll be coming home today to have a talk with you about the subject."

Sherlock frowned, "The pun was intentional."

"Excuse that too, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at 'Mr. Holmes', "I'm your brother-in-law."

"Duly noted, Mr. Holmes. But a word of advice; if you really intend to seek the man you're in love with, you must hope that he has had a decent upbringing. As Mycroft would put it, we cannot have a repeat of Holmes the Third."

With that, and a dull click of heels, she was gone, sans Blackberry. Sherlock heaved a sigh.

They were going to have a long, _long_ talk.

* * *

It was half past nine in the night when Mycroft arrived. Sherlock remained holed up in his bedroom with his violin, of which he was getting very creative. He could hear dull, heavy footsteps outside his bedroom door as he went on with his composing in its seclusion.

Mycroft.

Without knocking, the door swung open, but Sherlock did not turn to greet the visitor. He kept on playing, unflappable as ever. Even a clear of throat did not manage to attract his attention.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock kept playing, unleashing all his anger and frustration onto the strings of the fiddle.

"Sherlock!"

Abruptly, Sherlock stopped. "I know why you're here," he whispered.

"Do you?" Mycroft sat down on the bed. Sherlock turned around at the sound. He didn't look uneasy. He radiated. . . anger. Well, Sherlock usually made him angry, but this was different. It had a stench of betrayal to it.

"I don't see why my sexual orientation should bother you at all," he began, not meeting his eyes.

He hated Mycroft's imperturbable face in such circumstances, but now he forced himself to stay nonchalant over the roaring in his ears.

"Shouldn't it?" Mycroft out on a humourless smile, "When I'm looking for a girl for you?"

"I never asked you to. Man or woman, it will not matter to me," not when none of them would ever be John Watson.

"Sherlock," Mycroft smiled on, tight-lipped, "I will politely ask you to correct this horrendous delusion of yours. You do not like men. You are a Holmes."

"Oh, I didn't realise I had to read T&Cs before being born into the "Holmes clan"," Sherlock said with a sneer, "I'm hardly ecstatic about being a Holmes."

"Liking a man is just an illusion," Mycroft began, "just a phase you might be going through—"

"Oh spare me this, Mycroft. We're not sixteen anymore that we have to talk about phases and hormones!"

"It is not sensible. If men were to like men, woman wouldn't have existed at all."

"And it would do the world bloody good!" Sherlock roared, and Mycroft sighed.

"Such language, honestly!" Mycroft shook his head, "You never were this way were you were not—"

"I have always been gay, brother," Sherlock declared stalwartly, "I'm not going to handle any more of this 'being a Holmes' nonsense. I don't care if mummy or daddy would be displeased because they're dead."

"Artistic way to put it, though," Mycroft looked away, "so this is how it's going to be from now on, is it?"

Sherlock turned abruptly to him, "Like what?"

"Since I will _not_ allow same sex marriages—"

"—you sound like those weirdly religious people who believe that on the third day, God created the Remington bolt action rifle so that man could fight the dinosaurs and the homosexuals—"

"—and you will have to marry a girl who _I_ choose, that's what you're going to do, isn't it? Cheat on her with some man and make her life a hell?"

" _You'll_ be making her life a hell, not I. I'll simply tell her that I'm gay and that she can do better than me."

"You'll do no such thing," Mycroft's voice vibrated with fury. "You're not gay."

"That's not up to you," he said quietly.

"Oh _really_?" Mycroft rose, and eyed him down. Sherlock always hated their height difference. Why did Mycroft have to be his senior _and_ the taller one?

"Piss off, Mycroft," he said bad-temperedly.

"Need I remind you, this is _my_ house," Mycroft pointed out. "If someone needs to "piss off", it should be you."

Sherlock looked hard at him for five seconds, blinked the anger away and straightened up, "Fine. I'll get out."

"Now, now," Mycroft sighed, "don't be so childish—"

"Fine, you want to throw me out of your house," Sherlock roared, picking up a shirt and a pair of trousers from the wardrobe, "you don't have to be an arse about it."

"That is not what I—" Mycroft called after him, but Sherlock was in no mood to listen, "Sherlock it's ten of bloody clock!"

"I'll go to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson owes me a favour."

"Sherlock!"

"I'll keep my sexuality, you keep your Holmesian pride, brother mine," he went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. It took him seven and a half minutes in total to come out and face Mycroft, impeccably dressed.

"Fine," Mycroft looked away, his brows drawn into two hard lines despite the lightness, "I'll see your face only when you are done with this stupidity."

Sherlock chose not to dignify that with a response. He simply walked out of the house, hearing the door shut with a satisfactory _thud._

Sherlock decided to walk his way to Baker Street. It had been so long since he had had a walk in London, he had been so busy catching that blackmailer and tracing his identity as he went from people to people that he had lost track of days. Tottenham Court Road was still full of life as always, so Sherlock decided to cut from the main road and go through an alley. He couldn't believe that, his brother, of all the logical people in the world, couldn't believe in homosexuality.

Well, Sherlock thought miserably, he didn't believe him homosexuality because he did not deem it logical.

He took another alley before he reached Bedford Square where he saw the second most wonderful sight that he had seen in two days.

His scarf, his beloved cashmere silk nay blue scarf was there, tied to a street lamp. Sherlock cast an eye around carefully, in case something swooped in and took it away from him again. He leapt for it and grabbed it, his precious. Instantly, he tore the stupid scarf around from his neck and reverently put on his old scarf, the rectangular of his skin and the silk of his scarf rejoicing at the contact.

"Looking for something else too?"

Sherlock spun around. There, _in his limited edition Belstaff coat_ , was Sebastian Moran jeering at him. The muscles in his jaw jumped as he caught sight of his broadchested, dashing figure. He hated that man.

"Give me back my coat," Sherlock demanded petulantly.

Moran rolled his eyes, "Tell your brother to pay me a visit with the five mil I asked him to pay."

Sherlock let out an exaggerated sigh, "Mycroft's dealing with thugs now, is he?"

"Tell him to get me the five mil by tomorrow and I'll give you back your coat."

Sherlock visibly deflated. Couldn't this have happened before this whole Mycroft-threw-me-out-of-his-house thing? He tried a different route, "I can buy another."

"This is a limited edition coat. Or rather, was."

Sherlock looked away, "I'm not talking to him."

"Do I look like I fucking care?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, " _You_ want the money, not I. You go and ask him."

"Oh for God's sake," he pulled out a gun and fished his left arm out of Sherlock's coat. Aiming the gun, he heard a little whine leave Sherlock's throat, "Call him, or I'll shoot the coat."

Sherlock's lips trembled a little. And then he drew out his mobile and dialled Mycroft

* * *

Andrea  couldn't get Mycroft to have dinner of all things, that night. Mycroft sat holed up in his room, heartbroken, smoking piles and piles of cigarette and wallowing in guilt at having turned his brother out of his house.

"Mycroft!" she let out a gasp. Mycroft didn't respond, just sat there.

"Mycroft, Mr. Moran has got your brother. Location near Bedford Square."

Mycroft spun around without a word and at that moment, his phone rang out. His eyes were fixed on the screen as he tried to even his breaths when he saw Sherlock holding on to his mobile. He gulped and pressed "Accept Call". "Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

Pause. Mycroft's eyes were glued to the screen as Andrea began calling for vehicles to orchestrate Sherlock's rescue.

"What is it?"

"Mr. Romeo Moran is standing in front of me," he said, his voice not quivering one bit. Mycroft appreciated the nerves of his little brother, "He wants his money. Five million. He says you can call the police but it won't be worth it because he'll. . . he'll. . . shoot. . ."

Mycroft waited, barely able to breathe.

". . . shoot. . . my coat."

"I paid good money for that coat," Mycroft let out a groan, "okay, okay. What to do? Er. . . tell him I'll have the money by tomorrow. Ask him—"

Andrea poked her head into his study, mouthing _Operation Rescue is go_ to him.

"—ask him the location, brother. Ask him where I should come."

"He—he says, Lila's Den. Some. . . some club in Soho. Brother I—"

"I'll be there," Mycroft let out in a rush, but Sherlock cut across him.

"He says that one day delay is equal to one mil extra. And by the third day, he'll make the three of us into nine instead of six."

"Oh dear Lord," Mycroft breathed out. How was he going to generate eight million over three days? "Tell him I will come over tomorrow. Just come back home safe, Sherlock."

 _Click_ , went the phone off. On the screen Moran was laughing, and then, he threw the coat at Sherlock and made off. Mycroft buried his face into his hands. Moran had made off, once again. He had three days to turn his plan into fruition without having to pay him the "protection money", and then they'd all be safe then.

Until then. . . only Heaven help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Mean Girls, for that Remington bolt action rifle dialogue and of course, Belstaff, for letting Sherlock's coat do a guest appearance.
> 
> Such silent readers?


	7. 'F' For Family and 'Fuck You' and 'Flee'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the family angst will be resolved in this chapter, I promise, apart from just volleyball between Mycroft and. . . well, you know, the Moriartys. This chapter is mostly strategy and conspiring, but it is crucial to the plot, so I wouldn't skip it.

Mycroft had been in a negotiations meeting with the Carnine prime minister, a tiny little cannibal island south of Antarctica that Britain had attempted to chip off the face of the map before they had struck oil that would power the world for decades to come when he received a text from his agent. He stopped speaking Carnese, a language that was set to top English before 2050 because of its tremendous comprehension—even though it was mostly grunts, clicks, and teeth chomping—and glanced at the text.

**_Mole in SS today, 7:65 pm_ **

Mycroft peered at it closely, before another text arrived.

"Za zhou zi zha zu tha," declared the Carnine home minister steadfastly, standing up.

"Oh, bugger off," Mycroft swore and checked the second text.

**_Sorry, sir. 7:55 pm_ **

Honestly. Mycroft thought. Bloody secret service, couldn't even text the time properly.

**_The '6' reminded me of you, sir, hence the mistake, sir._ **

Mycroft glared at his phone.

**_Beg pardon for the impertinence, sir._ **

"Za zho zi zi zha!" One of the Carnine senators rose and bit into Lady Smallwood's arm. She squealed in terror more than pain, "Démence!"

"Ella es nuestra diosa!"

Mycroft gaped at the speaker. He had believed for years that the Home Minister was English.

"Cannibal attack!" The Minister of Overseas Development screamed and punched the Carnine Prime Minister in his face.

"Barathrum!"

"Zhi zhou zing zap za zho zho hu ha ni ta!" said another, and grabbed the Home Minister's fingers and bit them off his palms.

"Le monster des profondeures!"

Mycroft's head swirled; was the home minister a Spaniard or a Frenchman?

In minutes the whole peaceful conference room turned into a brawl of British MPs, men and women, British cannibals (probably), and Carnine cannibals alike.

"Vézu!"

"A pox upon thee!" cried John Garvie.

"Zhao zhou in zatura di zha!"

—which initiated a pushing, shoving, yelling, chewing melee that broke out into a full brawl. Before a cannibal could get hold of Mycroft, he slid off his chair smoothly and walked out of the door as fast as he could.

"Res ipso loquitur tabula in naufragi!" Cried several of them as they eyed Mycroft's plump stomach and only fantasised about delicious how his flesh would taste.

"As you were, gents," he uttered a quick goodbye, and turned to Andrea, who had been waiting outside. He had a hunch that he had just started a war between Britain and Carnine just by telling the Carnine Home Minister to bugger off.

"Sir?!" She exclaimed, surprised, trying not to pay attention to a thud followed by a sickening crack from on the other side of the door, "Are we leaving?"

"Yes," he walked fast, listening to the click of Andrea's heels, "you're dismissed for today."

"Sir!" She began, outraged, but Mycroft gave her a look that said 'shut up'. She became quiet, not usually the one to say anything against him. As they reached the exit of the building, a girl accosted him, "Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft scowled at her, "yes?"

"Good Morning, I came here for the post of your personal secretary."

Andrea glared at her, but she went on undeterred. Mycroft listened to her patiently, after which she looked her up to down, and did The Bob in the direction of the stairwell, "Yes I see, come with me."

But the girl let out a shocked noise and slapped him across his face, "Bastard!" Mycroft stared after her helplessly, and then turned to Andrea, but she surprised him too.

"Bastard!" She slapped him on his face and stormed away, leaving Mycroft wincing and rubbing both his cheeks bemusedly.

"What's wrong with the women?"

 

* * *

 

Seven-thirty was not a time Mycroft preferred for legwork. He usually liked to be back at home by this hour, having finished, even doubly finished all his work, and with some hot and sweet corn soup, he preferred to tuck into his bed and sleep his tiredness of goldfishes out.

He made his way into one of the strip clubs called Soho Striptease. As if the alliteration could make it sound even the tiniest interesting. He had put in a letter to Andrea saying that he was going to a strip club and that she needn't wait up for him, but now that he thought about it, it hadn't been a very wise thing to do, going by the slap she had given him today.

The music was loud, unbearable, and so was the stench of beer and the people hanging around. Oh, how could such people exist, let alone walk or talk? Their conversation, all punctuated by 'gay', 'fuck' and 'fag' served to wind him up even more. He still hadn't forgiven Sherlock for staunchly declaring himself as gay, and that too in front of Andrea, good Lord! Sherlock had always been a wilful child, always the black sheep of the family, always serving to disappoint or embarrass mummy and daddy. Had they been alive today, they'd have passed away again to hear that _Sherlock preferred men._

Mycroft chucked those thoughts away and threw his distasteful surroundings a glance. Oh, how he loved the peace in the Diogenes as opposed to the immaturity of the common folk. His agent had fixed up a meeting with a man in that club, the one man who would lead him to Moran and the people behind him. If it were for anybody else, he wouldn't have given a shit. But this was Sherlock, and he made it his personal responsibility that no matter however much that little prick winded him up, he was going to make the world a better place for him to survive in.

Goodnight, his agent, had said that the man was an ex-MI6 agent who had thrown away his life trying to uncover the people behind Romeo Moran, but he had been kicked out for his unattainable goal. Goodnight had informed him that the dishonoured agent was still working against Moran and in his employ as a means of infiltration and gathering evidence. Perhaps there had been a few officers in MI6 whose ends depended on Romeo Moran and his gang of murderers. There could be no man better than him.

Mycroft fretted in his uncomfortably tight jeans as he cast his eyes around. It was hard to tell how many of the people were decent (in a manner of speaking) and who were the criminals. Mycroft kept his eyes open and alert and ordered himself a beer, trying to appear normal.

"Rough night, eh?" asked the bartender, bald bloke with several rings on the outer ear, "You look shitty, mate."

Mycroft sent him a look that he hoped would send him scuttling to the other side of the bar, but it didn't.

"The night's just begun," Mycroft said, taking a sip of the catastrophic drink. Oh, how he loved the whisky in the Stranger Room in the Diogenes.

"I hope it just has. I do have a lot of things to divulge to you," Mycroft turned at that, and the bartender smiled at him. At once, the dull eyes became intelligent as he whispered, "Mr. Olfstym Chrome."

Mycroft smirked as a greeting upon hearing his cover name, "Mr. Richard Brook."

"Precisely," said Brook, "If you'd be so kind as to relieve me, I have a shift to finish."

 

* * *

 

Seb yawned widely as Jim scolded him on phone, which he probably did twelve hours a day.

"You told me he would come to you the next day!" The dismembered electronic voice of Jim bellowed into his ear from the speaker. Seb lazily held it away at a distance.

"Well, the fucker was tougher to crack then! Don' worry, bruh. You're the mastermind, and I'm the master-mastermind. That Mycroft may be clever as fuck, but put together we're a whole unit smarter than him."

A beat, and then. "Do not flatter yourself, Romeo. . . And what if he comes with the money, what the fuck will you do then, huh?"

Seb sniggered, "What's he gonna do, put his house as collateral and take a loan from Barclays, hell no!" He stretched his legs comfortably, "The thing is you don't understand people, Jimmy. I do. I'm a people person, I'm an artist."

"Artists are supposed to be abstract."

"And you're almost a psychopath," he stated blandly.

"Right, that. Coming from someone who _understands_ people," Jim drawled wryly.

"Don't worry, bruh," Seb chuckled, "I seen this Mycroft fucker with my own eyes. I seen anger, not fear. Same for the main party, they both pretend to be knights in a world of computers. You keep your place all tidied up. He'll come without the money."

"I hope he does!" Jim roared, "Because I won't be taking any money from my brother-in-law."

And _click_ , went the phone off. Seb sighed in frustration. Jim always pretended like he loved John more than Seb did. Seb found it supremely annoying, the protective side to Jim. He could bet his house that even John found it annoying. Not that he _had_ a house. . .

"Boss," Fatty and Skinny leered at him. Seb examined them with a bored look. Fatty had got a new wig for himself. Again, "should we be expecting Cake-croft today?"

Seb rolled his eyes, "Oi! Respect." And then smiled at the newest painting he had made: a house supported only on the tip of a pencil to portray the instabilities of home life, "Probably tomorrow. He's still gathering more information."

 

* * *

 

"What's his name?" came a low, pleasant female voice from behind Sherlock as he hunched over one of his chemical experiments. He gave a violent start.

He turned around to find Andrea looking at him, a small smile on her lips. That woman would surely be the death of him. He blinked and frowned, "Beg pardon?"

"I said what's his name," she smiled challengingly and approached him, her hips swaying from side to side, "the one you're swooning over."

Sherlock grimaced, "I'm not swooning over anyone."

"I've never seen you look like this, so it's the only possibility which can't be eliminated," she elucidated, and Sherlock sighed at her clinical language, "Go away and do whatever you do on your Blackberry."

"I'm dismissed. And I also happen to have the contact details of and the footage of you making out with one John Watson."

Sherlock stiffened at that name, and then slumped against his chair. There was no point hiding anything from her if Mycroft couldn't do the same. And Mycroft was supposed to be cleverer. He sometimes wondered if Andrea was the cleverest person in Britain as opposed to the Holmes brothers, by the virtue of being a woman, "What's your problem?"

"You should know that your brother loves you."

"Yeah," Sherlock gave her a sardonic chuckle, "I should know exactly how much."

"I mean it," she deadpanned, "He does, but doesn't do a very good job of showing it."

"No, he doesn't love me and he does a very good job of showing it," Sherlock snapped and then frowned. Where the hell was that coming from?

"Whatever helps you sleep at night. If you really love John Watson, you should seek him out. Tell him that you can work again, instead of sitting holed up and sulking here."

And with that, and a mysterious sashay of wind, she was gone, leaving Sherlock conflicted once more.

 

* * *

 

"You are a bartender?" Mycroft exclaimed in surprise. Brook laughed.

"Funny how a man chooses a bartender over his best friend," said Brook as he and Mycroft settled in a corner with drinks. Mycroft did not point out how horrible beer was, seeing as Brook was the bartender himself.

"Oh yes, of course," Mycroft pretended to take a sip, "Romeo frequents this club, doesn't he?"

Brook lit a cigarette started to smoke contentedly. For Sherlock, Mycroft told himself as the tar filled fumes reached his nose, clashing horribly with the rest of the odour of the club. A few feet away from them, a woman looked like she was about to take her knickers off, but then she hooked her leg around the pole and made a snatch for all the money the guys threw in her direction.

"Romeo doesn't "frequent" clubs. Usually if he is in a mood, he'll go to the nearest one from the location he is in, which can be pretty much anywhere in London."

Mycroft nodded, and took a real swig of the beer, "How did Goodnight find you?"

"I contacted him," Brook assured him with a smirk, "A pimp like Goodnight couldn't have found me."

"Oh really?" Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. Goodnight was one of their best agents, "I suppose you wouldn't want to help me. I was one of those in the committee who ended your service. Then why would you _voluntarily_ contact him?"

"I had been expecting you," Brook said with a hypnotising smile and wide, possessed eyes. Not to mention low, rumbling voice as if he were reading the _Iliad_ aloud, "You were taking your own time to contact me."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, "It is seven thirty now, Mr. Brook. I think it's not yet time for you to turn into your tarot-card personality."

Brook curled into himself as he smiled coyly, "Yeah, you're right. My tarot-card reading shift starts at nine. Another opportunity which makes men reveal their darkest secrets."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "What is in it for you?"

Brook slumped against his seat, "Well, like I said, I come to know a lot about the underworld's secret ring. Tarot-reading is an ancient—"

"Not tarot," Mycroft seethed through clenched, losing his confidence in the man by every second that passed, "helping me."

"Because I'm the only one who can help you," Brook smirked, "I'm his right-handed man."

Mycroft studied him properly. What if Brook was the one behind Moran, ordering everything and everyone around while he sat at a club bartending and fortune-reading? He looked towards the entrance of the club and nodded. He had one or two men incognito in the club as well, to save his back in case he was attacked. He was going to have Brook followed for the night, in case he turned out to be the game changer, the brain behind Moran. Then he would have it straight with Moran, by blackmailing him in the name of having his boss in his capture, and then Romeo Moran would be forced to surrender into perhaps persecution by hanging or the guillotine that Her Majesty the Queen kept away under her bed.

"I pass him all the information. He depends on me. Without me, he'd be dead within days."

"I thought you worked against him—"

—by working for him," Brook corrected, "Agents do that all the time, Mr. Chrome. Some of it is wrong, most of it is left to his awful interpretation. One day he'll stick his dick in a pussy tighter than he can take, so to speak."

Mycroft grimaced at that awful metaphor, "So?"

"I can put in a word," Brook smiled enticingly, "to make him stop threatening you."

"I never spoke of any threat," Mycroft said, his doubts becoming solid. Brook gave him information, Moran depended on Brook. It was obvious as hell that the brain behind Moran was Brook, plus he knew about Mycroft's dilemma.

"True, you didn't; those who aren't threatened are either not involved or dead. You seem involved, man. That man looks up to me like a baby to his daddy. Take my name in front of him and he'll fall to my feet with a _thump_ as loud as his voice."

"You must want something against this, won't you?" Mycroft said, "No one would do this for free."

Brook smirked, "I would, if only you'd let me."

Mycroft nodded, taking a last sip of his drink. Brook was suspicious enough.

 

* * *

 

When Mycroft reached home, Andrea wasn't there to open the door for him. He stayed out in the cold, banging on the door.

"Will you please stop being such a child and open the door, Sherlock?" he said, a touch exasperated when he heard his brother making sounds in the house, noises that sounded like he was torturing an owl with one hand and destroying the walls with another.

The sounds continued. Mycroft sighed and dialled Andrea's number, but as it turned out very obviously, she rejected it every time he called. She was still angry then. He really couldn't see why. Andrea knew about the problem with his neck, didn't she?

Or maybe it was because he had even considered another PA in front of her. Mycroft couldn't blame himself. His nerves were pretty frayed from his meeting with the Carnine nationals.

"Sherlock!" He shouted, "I'm freezing here!"

"Isn't the fat in your body taking care of the problem of insulation?" came Sherlock's voice. Mycroft shifted to his feet uncomfortably at the mention of his weight. Mycroft briefly considered calling a skilled lock pick, but then he remembered that Andrea did such things. Oh, how indispensible she was for him.

He sighed and went around the house, letting himself in through the backdoor. It was easier to break apart at least, if not the heavy front door.

Putting his weight on the back door, he let himself in through the basement and made his way to the kitchen, plopping down on the only chair which could take his weight. He spotted a cake and dived into it, finding it only a rubber diaphragm coated with cream. It burst in his face, followed by the gleeful burst of laughter from his brother standing in the doorway.

"Middle age is affecting you, brother dear!" he choked on his own laughter. Mycroft stared at Sherlock, stunned. He hadn't seen his brother this happy since he was nine, laughing, making fun of Mycroft and taking advantage of his weak spot for cakes with the aid of stupid booby traps. Was this because of that. . . guy, the one that Lestrade was talking about, the one that Sherlock had hooked up with, because he got to be. . . himself? To be gay for one night? It startled him so much that he almost felt a smile tugging the corner of his lips upwards before he decided to curb that behaviour.

"And yet you're still a child," Mycroft countered unflappably and Sherlock's laughter died down.

"Well, I don't grab every piece of confectionery I lay my eyes upon," Sherlock said with a smirk and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I want this nonsense in the wastebin, Sherlock," he ordered, "and where is Andrea? And where is the cook and the dinner?"

"She's sleeping upstairs, or that might be her. . ." Sherlock said uncertainly, "she did say something about being dismissed or divorced . . .  the two words start with the same syllables so I'm really not sure what she said."

"Divorce?!" Mycroft stammered, "Why on earth is she giving me a divorce?"

"How would she?" Sherlock pointed out unthinkingly, "Your marriage isn't legalised on paper."

Mycroft bit his tongue. He and Andrea had never legalised their marriage as a precaution, but that only meant that she could leave him anytime. Things were only starting to look up. He didn't want to lose anything anymore. If Andrea left with his—their—unborn son, Sherlock would be the only one he would have to spend his old age with. He had almost lost his brother to the debate of homosexuality some days ago. No more.

"Brother, come here," Mycroft gestured to a chair in front of him. Sherlock shot him a suspicious look but otherwise complied.

"Are you. . ." he gulped, "certain about being gay?" he spat it out.

Sherlock looked taken aback, which he masked effortlessly, if one did not count the time delay of one microsecond, "What's all this about?"

"Answer my question," Mycroft insisted, "Are you really gay?"

Sherlock studied Mycroft's face until he looked like the penny dropped.

"Look, Mycroft, I should probably tell you that I'm. . . married to my work and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for. . ."

"Arrr!" Mycroft exclaimed, "I'm your brother, good Lord!"

Sherlock scratched his head, "Oh right, that's my dialogue for non-brothers. Sorry."

Mycroft let out an all-suffering sigh, "So, I mean. . . this. . . homosexuality is unprecedented."

"I've always been gay, brother," Sherlock said calmly, "Even when I brought those girls home, I—well, that was just experimenting but I always knew."

"And why didn't you tell me this before? Ever?" That was what Mycroft was most angry about. Why would Sherlock never tell him that.

"Look how telling you had turned out," Sherlock retorted, "at any rate, it's my life, not yours."

Mycroft nodded. "Then I suppose that we better change our quest for a girl to a quest for a man, someone who can keep your activities in check, someone who'll have control over you, a loving, kind but firm hand. . ."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock bury his head in his arms and he sighed in satisfaction.

 

* * *

 

After sometime, Mycroft went up to his room and locked the door behind him. Andrea was indeed sleeping. It was such a rare sight, seeing her sleep when all Mycroft had known her as was bustling around in clicking heels with the Blackberry in her fingers and a penknife concealed in somewhere in her clothes. There were only very few moments when he had actually seen her sleep. She always came to bed after he had retired, and always woke up before he had opened his eyes to the new day, except those moments when they made love and Mycroft watched her eyelids droop. She was energy, life, dynamics personified and yet her face was always the same, peaceful and calm and pleasant, except when she was around Sherlock, of course. No one could be pleasant around Sherlock, not even his ever-patient PA/wife.

He left his laptop on the bedsit and crept into the bed with her after making sure that she really was asleep. She moved a little but did not react in anyway.

"I know I've been mean these days," Mycroft said in a low, quiet voice, knowing that she won't hear, "I don't pretend that I'm not. But these are tough times, my dear. Bear with me"

He exhaled, trying to control his breathing, trying not to recall Romeo's spiteful face, trying not to recall the immediate danger he and his family lay in. But all of it would be over tomorrow. When he'd get hold of Moran's boss, that Richard Brook. Obviously. Who else could it be? Now that Brook's entire life was ruined by the MI6, the only thing he could do was turn against them, of course.

He splayed a hand carefully on where his child must be now, a tiny ball of cells, but still a creation of the two of them. There was nothing moving, there was absolutely no movement; she was only into the first trimester, but Mycroft could not deny the sudden surge of heat.

"And we shall tide over them, just as we will tide over all that life throws at us, if only you'd have my hand."

"I'm not asleep," Andrea declared emphatically. There was a rustle of sheets, a squeak of the bed, and Andrea was looking at a thoroughly embarrassed Mycroft.

"I—I erm. . ."

"Somebody needs to teach you tact, Mr. Holmes," she said, covering Mycroft's hand on her belly with her own when he tried to draw it back, " _I'm going to a strip club, don't wait up_. Honestly? Have you any idea what that implies?"

"You know I'd never—" Mycroft began, but she cut him off.

"I believe you," she said, "but you are never to look for another PA while I'm here, understood?"

"Yes ma'am," Mycroft said automatically. She gave him a quick smile and propped up against the headboard of the bed.

"So, sir. What work do we have to do?"

"Very important work," he nodded and pulled the laptop open, "I'll just put on the lights."

At that, Andrea let out a little smile which was not missed by Mycroft as he switched on the lights, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just. . . never thought I'd hear you say that, _sir_ , offering to do the work yourself instead of ordering people around."

"You're pregnant," Mycroft pointed out automatically. Andrea looked like she wanted to argue, but she simply sighed and waved towards the bed, taking her Blackberry between her fingers. The artificial light lit up her face like that of a goddess.

"What's your plan of action, then?"

"Today, as you know, I went to pay Richard Brook a visit. He works as a bartender in Soho Striptease."

"Ex-commander Richard Brook, double-o-eleven," she chanted, "formerly of the—"

"—MI6, British Secret Services, yes," Mycroft said a little impatiently, "yes, the very same man who was declared insane after he began refusing all our efforts to assign him another mission. He became obsessed with Moran and his nonexistent empire, and began justifying his unordered assassinations with his 'license to kill'. It came to me as a surprise that he was still alive, when Goodnight told me about him, but then that was justified by the fact that Mr. Brook is currently under the protection of Romeo Moran and hence untouchable.

"I have made a deal with him to go to Moran's tomorrow. The man seems very generous, and fallaciously overconfident about my weakness. He is probably not only under Brother Romeo's protection. The skills that Brook had, he rose through his ranks of the Secret Service very quickly. My surmise is that he is the brains behind Romeo Moran's activities. Therefore, if we establish that Richard Brook is Romeo Moran's boss and brainpower then—"

"—being so easily available to you, you can intercept on your deal with Brook, use him as your leverage and establish their networks to disarm it and bring it down, and then sentence Romeo and Brook to death by capital punishment for crimes against the Crown," she finished with a vaguely pleased smile. "Easy."

"Therefore," Mycroft loaded his spy network system into the laptop and entered the pass code, "it only remains to establish Brook's position in the network using surveillance, which I intend to over the course of tonight and the next half of the day. I'm meeting him in the Criterion at 5. If his movements are what I anticipate them to be, then he's the ace up in the sleeve."

 

* * *

 

On the other side of the London, Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty were awake too, watching every movement of Richard Brook with alert eyes.

"Bruh, I gotta say," Sebastian let out a giggle as he pointed at all the security cameras concentrated on Brook, "it's almost like a race against us and that Mycroft. Whoever sleeps first is the loser."

Jim rolled his eyes, "Never thought I'd have to do this sort of thing to get a guy. Good thing this Mycroft chap is going for arranged marriage."

"And what luck, I should've met him while making a painting! I love these gay people. Always in the right place at the right time."

Jim took off his headphones to glare at Sebastian, "Just fucking shut up."

From the earphones, Brook's voice came, "Now what, boss? Boss?"

Jim put it back on, "Now you keep acting like you're barking commands to someone on the phone. You were MI6, right? You know all that shit, pick me up at blah blah blah road at blah blah coordinates and send a chopper and a truckload of MP5 macs, don't you?"

"Bruh," Sebastian tapped him on the shoulder, "This Mycroft guy is going to all limits to ensure his bruh's safety. Good thing, that. He'll look after Johnny well."

"Well, we need Johnny to like him first," Jim reminded him again.

"Good thing that I had the clubs ready," Seb examined smugly, disregarding Jim's words, "Never thought that this Mycroft would be so efficient. Found out about Brook in a day. It's a good thing we're clever bruh. Keep that Mycroft guy suspecting that Brook's you."

Jim let out a snort at that, "Like that could ever happen. . . Hey, when that Mycroft tries to double-cross you by threatening Brook tomorrow and you tell him that he's not your boss, just keep a guy around so that I can see a picture of his face like that."

Seb cackled, "Sure thing, bruh."

"What are you two doing up so late?" came John's voice from the door, and Jim and Seb almost jumped, "Playing Counterstrike again?"

Jim and Seb glanced at each other. They probably were, but only in real world, and all for Johnny.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Mycroft set for Criterion, unable to keep off a smug smile on his face. So easy, making Moran, and more importantly, his very intelligent boss Richard Brook. Richard Brook had to be the boss, of course. Everything fitted. The man was delusional, the man kept a low profile, but no more. Mycroft had seen the proof with his own eyes, what he had done, the crime scenes of the several cases that Sherlock declared boring, Brook had done no less than ten high profile transactions that night, surrounded by bodyguards and being called the boss—Mycroft would be damned if Brook wasn't the boss.

After a lunch with Brook (only to keep him tracked by Mycroft's men), they set towards where Brook claimed was Brother Romeo's principal hideout. It was on the terraces of the CAM office building in Central London, the one newspaper which had long enjoyed the most notorious reputation of being more of a message lookout for criminals. But now, most criminals took to other newspapers to expand their avenues.

Brook made small talk with Mycroft as he led the man to the terrace of one office building which he had a helipad. Meanwhile, Mycroft's two men, who lagged behind them sneakily sent the request for another chopper just waiting offshore of Thames, to follow the trajectory of the helicopter on which the words 'CAM' were inscribed.

Upon reaching the terrace, Mycroft found out that the chopper he had chartered was waiting for them, disguised as a CAM media chopper. The pilot was an "old friend" of Mycroft.

"Just a small ride to the CAM newspaper offices. Brother Romeo hangs out there with his companions."

Mycroft smiled. Weird place to hang out, "Okay."

A five minute ride later, Mycroft could see the logo of CAM newspapers and the multi-storeyed building, atop which Moran probably was lurking. As soon as the chopper kissed the asphalt, the pilot and Mycroft pulled out their guns and pointed them at Richard's temple.

"What the fuck?!" was all that left Brook's mouth.

"That's right. Don't move," said the pilot, "there's a good boy. Lieutenant Dimmock," he showed his badge, "Special Agent, Risk Assessment, British Secret Services. I believe I've served under you, sir."

"That doesn't sound like me."

"You stole my goat before I could stroke her chin for the evening!"

"Now _that_ doesn't sound like me at all!"

Before Mycroft could get a grip on the two of them, Dimmock punched Brook in the face.

"Borrowed! _Borrowed_ withoutpermission. But with every intention of giving it back."

"Cut it out, gents," Mycroft snapped, and Dimmock immediately fell silent, "Mr. Brook, hands behind your head."

Brook looked at him with intense loathing, "I should've known. Bloody Secret Services. All of you, made of the same straw."

"Of the chip of the same block," Mycroft corrected automatically, "hands behind your head or Mr. Dimmock here will ensure that he gets the fair price for his goat."

Meanwhile, upon hearing the commotion of the chopper's noise, Fatty and Skinny came out, followed by a lazy Seb, "What the fuck is going on?"

At the sight of Mycroft and Dimmock brandishing their handguns, Fatty and Skinny went to retrieve theirs at once, but Mycroft smirked, "Don't even think of it. The whole place is surrounded."

Seb looked amused, "And pray tell why? Does each head cost thousand quid or something?"

Dimmock forced Brook on his knees as Mycroft kept his gun pointed at Seb and his companions. Seb smiled at him, "Ya do realise that you're outnumbered, you imbecile? We've all got two nines each with us," he patted his jacket where he had his 9 mm concealed, "You shoot one, four shoot the two of you."

"I'm not here to recreate a sadly gone encounter, Mr. Moran. I'm here to negotiate. If you accept, you die. If you don't, again, you die."

Seb licked his lips, "Interesting. Let's have it then, boyo!"

"You will leave London, and you'll never come back. I will not give you the eight 'mil' you very politely asked of me."

Seb rolled his eyes and came closer to Mycroft, disregarding the gun pointed at him, "Or what?"

"I kill your boss, and we leave with you, and today will be the last day you'll have the sun shining on your face."

Moran peered at him, "Boss is here?"

Mycroft felt floored at that question but managed to maintain his composure, "Oh, didn't you know? Clever, clever."

Dimmock rested his gun against Brook's temple, standing in a position in which Brook couldn't overcome him even if he had the strength of Hercules.

"Oh him?" Moran cackled, "you think that little shit is our boss?! That prick is our informant, Brook. Bastard. Got all of our shipments to Haiti diverted to LA and our best men gunned down.

Beside him, Mycroft felt the flash of a lens on his face. Fatty had taken out his phone and taken a photo of Mycroft. Mycroft slowly raised his head, jaw working in tension as the mob boss laughed and settled behind his desk inside the little cabin and put his legs up on it, yawning like a man who had spent hours staring at crap telly. Fatty and Skinny laughed and moved away to resume whatever they were doing. Mycroft couldn't say anything to keep them in their places. He had been duped. Spectacularly. There was someone cleverer than him.

"And that shipment turned out to be a fucking fake, bruh!" Fatty and Skinny called out from inside the office, where they resumed their game Uno one-on-one. Mycroft felt like storm clouds were closing in upon him.

"What the fuck was that?" Moran demanded as Fatty laughed at his mobile, at Mycroft's face.

"Boss wants a picture, don't he?"

"Oh right, right," Seb clapped. "So. . . Mycroft, what do I do with you?"

Mycroft saw his final hope deserting him. Brook was useless, utterly useless, not the boss, but he still kept his courage. He kept his gun level even though he had clearly lost the gambit, "Let me kill you?"

"And let your pretty arse go to jail? Get your fair hands dirty? Oh no no no no," he paused and looked at Mycroft directly in the eyes, "The brother will see but what would the wife say? What would your boy say? Tut-tut."

That mentally disarmed Mycroft, the threat to his family. His hands on the gun were trembling almost imperceptibly, but nonetheless they were. No, he had to concentrate. There were still his men downstairs, he could still turn it in his direction, deport Romeo to Carniland where the cannibals could eat him forever. His brain skidded to a halt. The impending danger to Andrea and his unborn boy was too much for him to handle.

"You will get me ten mil by tomorrow afternoon," Seb spoke unflappably as Mycroft cast a look around. It was not just a cabin sort of room. It was a whole half-a-floor. And you," he gestured at Brook, "You'll get me another mil or I'll cut your dick into half, got it?"

Brook nodded numbly, throwing hateful glares at Mycroft. So much for Romeo regarding Brook like a daddy, that slack-jawed idiot!

Seb got up and walked towards the exit, making a clandestine gesture to Fatty and Skinny when Mycroft turned with his gun still pointed in Seb's direction, "You can never make it out of here. The place is surrounded by the Secret—"

Seb rolled his eyes, "Oh for God's sake," and lunged at Mycroft. Before Mycroft could shoot, at which he was no expert, Seb grabbed the gun and threw it out of Mycroft's grasp. Dimmock fired at the Seb's wrist but it narrowly missed him. At that, Seb's bodyguards, no less adept, raised their guns to fire at him but Seb raised a hand to stop them.

"By your leave, Mr. Holmes," he said cheekily and climbed into the helicopter all by lonesome while Brook slowly began to understand that Mycroft's real name was Holmes, not Chrome, "Give my regards to the missus. Oh and, by the way, my people are all over the building. It's CAM news after all."

With that, and a cheesy smile at Mycroft, Dimmock and Brook, Seb clambered onto the helicopter and made off. Mycroft sunk to Moran's seat, a defeated, utterly helpless man. He shook his head in horror. Moran had every chance to get away. That was a good chopper that they just lost. How was Mycroft supposed to know that Romeo Moran knew how to fly a chopper?

"Commands, sir?" Dimmock emphasised, but Mycroft kept unmoving. When Mycroft failed to respond. Dimmock tore the radio from his jacket and barked into it, "This is Special Agent Lieutenant Dimmock. Target is armed and moving in a SAS Eurocopter Dauphin, east of St. James' Park, bound towards the Waterloo Bridge. I repeat, target it armed. Over."

There was no point. Romeo Moran was clever enough to make an emergency landing in the Thames and come out of there through Southbank, innocent. No point chasing him.

A few feet away, Fatty pulled Skinny a draw 4. Skinny pulled another draw 4 on top of that.

"Hey, that's not allowed!" Fatty protested.

"I can keep putting in any number of draws of the same colour, you fucker!"

"That's not in the rules!"

"It's there in the rules. . . and since when di _you_ play by rules?!"

Mycroft seethed silently at them. He—the extremely barbaric side of him that lay clapped in irons somewhere inside him—wanted to rise and rip their throats. His entire family was in danger, he was the head of the British Secret Services and yet he wasn't able to do a single damn thing.

"Welcome, sir!"

The squeak startled Mycroft. He looked around; he was still in the uppermost floor of what he realised was a condo or a penthouse inside the CAM Media office.

The little man who had said 'welcome' and frankly saluted him, went and saluted Brook, then Dimmock—who were both staring at the man as if he had three heads—and then he went and saluted Fatty and Skinny—who acted as if nothing had happened. Now that Brook was utterly harmless, Mycroft went and ordered him to his feet, giving his handgun to Dimmock.

"You said that you were—!" Mycroft growled, but Brook overrode him smoothly.

"I am not his boss. You're mistaken. His boss is—"

"Welcome sir!" went the man merrily, blandly, past a man who looked like he could break the world record of Walter Hudson, and who also looked like he was set to break the record of the man who blew the most number of balloons in his lifetime. The man was surrounded by balloons, red, yellow, green, blue. In fact, his corridor was full of balloons.

Dimmock peered at Mr. Salute, "Is he being paid to salute?!"

Skinny chuckled, "That is Brother Romeo's ex-valet. Once, he forgot to bow to him on his way out towards the city. So, Brother Romeo punished him to salute everybody for six months."

Mycroft peered at him wondering what kind of juvenile sadist this Romeo Moran was. And why was he so obsessed with Mycroft. Mycroft knew that they didn't know what role he played in the Secret Service and the government. If he was to be the target, he'd have had many attempts on his life till now. Why was this slow torture? Who were they, the French? The Albanese?

"Actually," Fatty supplied helpfully, "This is our bruh's private jail. And they're all prisoners spending their terms."

The Walter-Hudson guy blew air into a blue balloon. Mycroft stared at him, never having seen such nonsense things.

"What. . . about him?" asked Dimmock, like he had forgotten what had happened a few moments ago.

"That one. . . the balloons he blew for bruh's birthday were small. Said, I have problem blowing air. Bruh got angry and gave him a punishment to blow balloons till boss' next birthday."

The man looked almost closed to weeping as he looked beseechingly at Mycroft. Fatty's phone rang out, startling all of them.

"Yes boss?. . .  Okay boss. I'll get 'em outta here. You take care, boss." As Fatty got off the phone, Mycroft knew what was in store for them, even if he couldn't believe it.

"Boss says he had touched his brush today, so he will not kill you or your pets. Come back tomorrow with ten mil and you," he pointed his finger at Brook, "with one mil, or you heard what boss said."

Brook said nothing, simply kept watching over his back as Mycroft and Dimmock followed him silently. If only one chance, Mycroft thought, one chance to pull himself and his family out of this dreadful mess, he'd take it.

"Mission aborted," Mycroft managed to say finally. Dimmock looked reluctant but—

"This is Special Agent Lieutenant Dimmock. Mission codenamed M.I.S. aborted, over."

As they walked on their way out, they saw the lawyer, Crayhill, who was probably born jogging on a treadmill, kept running and panting, "sorry, sir," over and over again. Streaks of perspiration flew down his temples and his body freely and he tried to reduce the speed, but somebody had destroyed the speed regulating button. As Mycroft, Dimmock and Brook approached then, Crayhill gave in and fell down on the floor ungainly.

"I—I couldn't escape, but you. . . you guys have still time. . . sirs. Approach Mr. James Moriarty, or there'll be no way out of this. .  . it'll. . . it'll go on like a . . . like a loop. He's the only angel who can solve your problem."

Mycroft cocked his eyebrow, "James Moriarty?!" just as Brook's face blanched of all colour, "Angel?"

"He's a. . . he's well-established business . . . man. He's got jets, builders. . . contractors, shipping corporations. . . name it. Everyone respects him, even this Romeo. . ." and then he pointed to Brook, "Brook knows where he lives, don't you, Brook?"

Mycroft and Dimmock repeated, "James Moriarty?" while Brook scratched his head, wondering what the hell was happening and why was James Moriarty being compared to an angel. Behind then, Fatty and Skinny gave each other a silent high-five. The plan was in motion, finally. Mycroft was in the trap.

As they got safely out of the building, Mycroft dismissed Dimmock and cornered Brook behind the building, looming over him with a terrible figure. His chance of getting out of the mess was here, and he wasn't going to throw it away.

"You will take me to James Moriarty, do you get it?"

 

* * *

 

". . . I don't know what else to do, Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft shook his head as Brook stayed unmoving, all the while wondering whether the apocalypse was anywhere near, for Mr. Moriarty was anything but an angel, "That man. . . I mean, my wife is pregnant. She must _not_ take stress in anyway, we know how some very unfortunate children end up now-a-days because their mothers were stressed and unhappy during the pregnancy. And he. . . he's threatening me in my cafe and cross-dressing me—I'm a self respecting middle-class man," he dropped his forehead in his palm and shook his head.

Jim listened on without a word and with a kind, patient hand on Mycroft's shoulder like that of a counsellor's. When Mycroft finally finished with his dissertation, Jim wrapped an arm around Mycroft's shoulders and drew him in an awkward embrace. Mycroft stilled a bit at the attempt at physical comfort, but then he'd heard that Moriarty was a very kind man, so Mycroft just dealt with it as Jim patted his back comfortingly. The gesture felt comforting enough to Mycroft. No one had ever done that to him, not even his own father, not even his own wife. Sherlock—he was out of the question. He always made fun of Mycroft when he got even a bit brotherly.

Mycroft cast a surreptitious eye around Jim's mansion. It was outside the perimeter of Central London, hence it had yet escaped his attention while hunting out with Operation Cobra. He was fairly certain that he'd never heard the name 'Moriarty', but then the man seemed rich, very much so. The grandeur was certainly appealing, not lavish or very opulent, just simple but a comfortable show of power and wealth. There was security everywhere, men and women in crisp black suits and identical expressions, willing to give up their lives for James Moriarty's.

And the man, he was short and kind and extremely comforting and empathetic, as he kept uttering reassurances of 'it's okay' or 'I will not let a man such as you go through such hell' and sorts, but one could see that he was a no-nonsense sort of a man, the man who had zero tolerance ability. But the man was an angel in every way, soft words, kind words that even Mycroft couldn't deflect and hence assumed them to be spoken from heart. Somewhere in between, Mr. Moriarty had sent for Brother Romeo, and now all Mycroft could do was to maintain his composure in the wake of the thought of losing his brother, the one person he had shared and lived the entirety of his life with, to a mob boss. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to go on if something happened to Sherlock.

"Yes, Mr. Moriarty," Romeo made his grand appearance, accompanied by his minions, Legless and Baldy. He looked like a stud as always, but this time, his expression was humble and contrite and genuinely concerned. He peered at Mycroft as though he were an overgrown insect (which he probably would be if he were an insect in the first place) and then turned back to Moriarty, who was watching Seb with an unreadable expression, as if still working on what to say that didn't come out as forced or fake.

"Romeo, what is all this I'm hearing? How can you be so reckless, calling anybody, asking anything without any consideration of—this gentleman, sir—"

"Sir?!" Mycroft looked at him with wide eyes, "Don't call me a sir—!"

"Why mustn't I? Now-a-days even diseases are called can-sir, and you're a such a good man, you're a upstanding, respectable British civil servant."

"Sir, I pay my taxes on time, Mr. Moriarty. Half the people in the country find some loop in the law and don't pay their taxes, sir."

Mycroft didn't mention that being the British government _de facto_ , he probably paid his taxes to himself.

"Look at that," Jim gestured to Mycroft appraisingly, "such an honest, good man, and you. . ."

"M—M—Mr. Moriarty," Romeo stammered, "I—I didn't know that. . . he. . . you knew him."

" _Knew him_?" Jim repeated, shaking his head and at a loss of words (literally), "He's. . . an old friend of mine. As old as friends can go."

Meanwhile, behind all of them, Brook kept scratching him head. What the hell was happening here?

Suddenly, Moran's demeanour altered dramatically as he looked at Mycroft with reverence that he had never seen in Moran's eyes, "Then he'll be. . . he'll be like my. . . my elder brother. Sorry! I made a grave mistake—"

"Promise to your brothers that you'll never again do such a thing," Jim warned and Romeo Moran and his minions obliged happily, even tearfully, Mycroft suspected. As if they hadn't played the dangerous game with him just hours ago.

"You're done with. Go away," was all Jim needed to say for Moran to bolt from there with a small salute. Mycroft felt like his breath returned to him as Moran walked away, a breath that was still stale with the days that he had spent not releasing it. A huge burden was off his shoulders. Sherlock was safe. Andrea and his child were safe. Oh, the man. What a great man. What a saint.

"Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft ventured tentatively. Moriarty was perhaps the best man to ever have walked the face of the earth, everything about him so calm and serene and obliging. Even 'angel' was not enough to describe what Moriarty was now to Mycroft, "can I go and. . . slap him for all that—?"

To his surprise, James reached out and slapped Mycroft's cheek kindly, magnanimously, laughing a bit. But Mycroft shook his head, "I'll never be able to repay your debt, Mr. Moriarty—"

Jim coloured slightly at the praise, "No, It's nothing like that."

"It is, it is!" Mycroft insisted, "You're an angel. There's still decent people in the world."

"No no, it's never like that. I just couldn't see you in so much pain—"

"It is, sir. I will forever remain in your debt, Mr. Moriarty and I must pay it back, if you'll have me."

"Well, if you think I am, then do me a favour," Jim came down straight to business to an oblivious Mycroft.

"Whatever you say."

"Well, I have a brother, my little brother. He's a doctor, good man, kind-hearted, honest and honourable, used to work in St. Bart's under A&E medicine department but has his own private clinic now. Well-established, handsome, twenty nine years old."

Behind all of them, Brook gave a groan. Now he realised what this was, why he was given all those orders to act like Jim and make him come to Romeo and then subsequently to Jim. The entire scam was to make Jim come across as decent and good, so much that Mycroft gave away his little brother as the settlement of his debt into a nice wealthy family. Brook now realised that nobody would ever be able to usurp the Moriarty network if they could dupe the cleverest man in Britain. . .okay, scratch that, the second cleverest man in Britain. This couldn't be happening. How and why did the Moriartys always win? Well, they weren't winning this one, Brook decided.

Mycroft followed Jim with his gaze as Jim stood up, starting his famous dialogue for the families for potential suitors, "Everything is God given, health, wealth, respect in the city, in actually the whole country. . . SO much that if I were to marry my dearest brother to any man, there is no denying that it would be a certain yes."

Mycroft nodded, processing this.

"Yes we're going for arranged marriage because he's. . . well, he's a little busy with his work and. . . you know the younger generation, don't you, Mycroft?"

Mycroft nodded. Again.

"All I want is a boy. I want my brother to marry a decent boy, nice, established, belonging to a good family. . ."

Mycroft's ears rang at this. The boy was gay. Jim's brother way gay. And so was his own brother. This was the goldmine of all goldmines. What a great man, Mr. Moriarty. His brother will be no less, of course. Doctor, private clinic, a stable, secure, danger-free life, just like Mrs. Hudson and he had envisioned. Sherlock would settle down, and finally he'd be able to bring up his own boy with as much attention as he gave Sherlock.

"Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft exclaimed, "I have never believed in fate, but hereupon I change my opinion at once."

Jim stared at him, puzzled.

"My own brother, he's. . . a good man, decent and kind-ish. Well brought-up, studied in Harrow and Oxford, he's a detective, helps people get justice. . ."

"My, my," Jim exclaimed in faux-wonder as Seb and his minions spied on them from behind the curtain happily. Their plan to get the matter going was successful. Now it was all up to Johnny, when he came back from South Africa, "what a great man. Detective! Amazing."

"Yes it's true that we're not on the same rung of the society. . ." Mycroft began as Brook tried to alert him to what Mycroft was doing in reality: giving his brother away to a don's brother.

"Oh no, no!" Jim almost squealed, barely able to hide his excitement, "That is not an issue at all! Absolutely not an issue!"

"But. . . oh, Mr. Brook we'll talk later yes, but let me first hear what Mr. Moriarty has to say—"

"I'm all yes," Jim said in a rush, "I will give the hand of my brother into yours, yes I will."

Mycroft's face lit up. It was the best thing that had ever happened to him, "I'm yes too."

"Look, you gave me your word, Mycroft. I won't let you take them back," Jim said happily and slightly warningly, but Mycroft shrugged that feeling away compared to the blooming happiness in his chest. Finally, Sherlock would be married to a guy, like his wishes, instead of a girl. All was fine. This was a happy ending.

"I'm a respectable man, Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft said, "I will never take back what left my mouth."

And there, the alliance was sealed. Sherlock Holmes weds John Watson without one of the parties even knowing John's name, so mesmerised he was by what he'd seen of James Moriarty. At any rate, James had said that he'd send John's whole portfolio so it was okay. The perfect happy ending.

 

* * *

 

"Mr. Holmes, listen to me," Brook kept calling, but to no avail. Mycroft was lost, for the first time, in his own world. Was this how pure happiness felt like? Where you had an impulse to shout out to the world about what you had now. Well, Mycroft sure did feel like it, even if he had never felt like this ever. This business with Moran was over and now finally, Sherlock was going to be married to a well-settled, decent, kind boy. Sherlock always had a weak spot for kindness, Mycroft remembered. Maybe he'd like John Moriarty after all. He'd assumed his name to be John Moriarty, of course, because he was supposed to be James Moriarty's brother.

But Mycroft got into his car, forgetting all about Brook and all about that unpleasant business. It was over and now they would go back to how it was—calm and peaceful and sedentary.

As Mycroft got down at Kidderpore Gardens and towards his house, he felt like he could exercise his way to fitness by the emotion bubbling up in him, refuse cakes for an entire year and all that stuff. So he did what was most uncharacteristic of him. He entered and announced like a father, "I've got good news."

Andrea and Sherlock stared at him like aliens, and then burst into hypotheses.

"I'm supposed to be the bearer of the good news, I'm pregnant!"

"What, you've finally found out the highway to hell and now you're going to go there?"

"You've annihilated all holidays from the year?"

"You've made breaking and entering legal?"

Mycroft sighed. He should've expected something like that. "No, the good news is, that the Moran thing is settled."

Andrea and Sherlock looked at him expectantly, as if they had thought it obvious that Mycroft would sort it all out. Mycroft heaved a second sigh.

"Another good news is: Sherlock, you're getting married—to a boy. Good heavens, what a man. . . Mr. Moriarty! He's a saviour, he's got the biggest heart a man can manage. . . and Sherlock, you're getting married to his brother. . ."

Mycroft was too happy to notice the slight drop in Andrea's and Sherlock's faces. Sherlock glanced at Andrea, and then looked away, "Great," he said unenthusiastically.

Just then, Brook, who had been following Mycroft all the way from Jim's mansion ended up panting as he paid the cabbie the amount, "I have to tell you something about Mr. Moriarty, Mr. Holmes."

"What else you would tell me?" Mycroft impossibly laughed, just because he felt like it, and all Sherlock could think about was John at that moment. He had lost John forever. His brother had fixed his marriage. He had said that it wouldn't matter to him, boy or girl. Now it did. A lot. John was never going to be his now.

"That he's a murderer," Brook revealed, and Mycroft's carefully cultivated expression quickly went from overjoyed to contemplating to horrified, "His morning starts with the bullets and shooting. He kills a minimum of twelve people before he goes to sleep."

This finally caught Sherlock and Andrea's attention. Mycroft staggered backwards, "What rubbish?!"

"I swear," Brook said earnestly, "James Moriarty is the city's most fearsome don. I know him because I'm an important informer. Only ten people really know his name, yourself included."

"Don?"

"Mob boss?"

Mycroft felt like storm clouds were closing in around him, as Brook went on, "They trapped you for the younger Mr. Holmes, for his hand in marriage."

The whole world seemed  to speed up in its rotation as Mycroft stared at his brother with horror, and Sherlock stared back at him with quesiton, accusation written in his transparent eyes. Perhaps not the happy ending as it had seemed to be. After what seemed like hours, Mycroft stood up stoically and said, "Thank you, Brook, you may go now."

Richard Brook threw each of them a final glance before letting himself out and closing the door behind him with a thud. Mycroft slowly gulped.

"What have you done, brother?" Sherlock shook his head. The roaring in Mycroft's head was way louder than Sherlock's quiet voice.

"What do we do now?" Andrea asked, always the practical questions before the family drama.

Mycroft straightened up and looked directly at Sherlock and Andrea before declaring, "We leave the country."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who else is going to South Africa alongside John?

**Author's Note:**

> Any transcripts or Sherlock TV dialogues are taken from ArianeDeVere's transcript on LJ. Some from my all time favourite movie PoTC. Thanks for reading till here


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